would delight you, but I am determined not to do it, and this is the
severe punishment of your neglect, I withhold the treasures of my wit
and humour from you, a perfect Golconda mine of Diamonds.
I have been enjoying since you left me, the most exquisite
entertainment, in the perusal of the noble works of Ossian, the greatest
poet, in my opinion, that ever composed, and who exceeds Homer, Virgil,
and Milton. He transports us by the grandeur of his sublime, or by some
sudden start of tenderness he melts us into distress: Who can read,
without the warmest emotions, the pathetic complaints of the venerable
old bard, when he laments his blindness, and the death of his friends?
But how are we animated when the memory of former years comes rushing on
his mind, and the light of the song rises in his soul. It is quite
impossible to express my admiration of his Poems; at particular passages
I felt my whole frame trembling with ecstasy; but if I was to describe
all my thoughts, you would think me absolutely mad. The beautiful
wildness of his fancy is inexpressibly agreeable to the imagination; for
instance, the mournful sound from the untouched harp when a hero is
going to fall, or the awful appearances of his ghosts and spirits.
Notwithstanding all these beauties, we shall still continue pedants,
and Homer and Virgil will be read and quoted, when Ossian shall be
totally forgot; this, without the gift of prophecy, I can foresee; much
could I enlarge upon this subject, but this must not be a long letter.
Believe me
Yours sincerely,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
* * * * *
LETTER XVI.
Edinburgh, Jan. 11, 1762.
Dear ERSKINE,--Instead of endeavouring to excuse myself for neglecting
so long to write, I shall present you with some original conjectures of
my own, upon the way and manner in which you have been affected upon
this present occasion. And here I must premise, that in so doing I shall
not follow the formal and orderly method of Bishop Latimer, in his
sermons before King Edward the Sixth; but, on the contrary, shall adopt
the easy, desultory style of one whom at present I shall not venture to
name, but leave that to some future ingenious commentator on the
epistolary correspondence of the Hon. Andrew Erskine and James Boswell,
Esq.
Either you have been sunk into a frigid state of listless indifference,
and gone whistling up and down the room upon a fife, and murmuring at
intervals, while you took breath; let him do as he likes, let him please
himself; yes, yes, let him soap his own beard. Or you have felt the
most delicate pangs of afflicted sensibility, and uttered tender tales
of woe in softly plaintive numbers.
The savage bard returns no humorous line,
No Tragic Ode now sooths my soul to rest;
In vain I fly to Lady B----'s wine,
Nor can a hearty supper make me blest.
Or you have burned, raged, and fried like the thrice-amorous swain in
the renowned English translation of Voi Amante, and perhaps thundered
forth all the Anathemas which Tristram Shandy has borrowed from the
church of Rome, and transferred to poor Obadiah.
By this time, the storm is blown over. This merry letter has made you
grin, and show every expression of laughter. You are now in very good
humour, and are in all human probability saying to yourself, My good
friend Boswell, is a most excellent correspondent. It is true he is
indolent, and _dissipated_, as the celebrated Parson Brown,[36] of
Carlisle says, and he frequently is a little negligent: but when he does
write, ye Gods! how he does write! in short, to sing him his own
inimitable song, "There is no better fellow alive."
I remain
Yours sincerely,
JAMES BOSWELL.
[Footnote 36: Dr. John Brown, the author of "An Estimate of the Manners
and Principles of the Times."--ED.]
* * * * *
LETTER XVII.
New-Tarbat, Jan. 20, 1762.
Dear BOSWELL,--It is a kind of maxim, or rule in life, never to begin a
thing without having an eye towards the conclusion; certainly this rule
was never better observed than in your last letter, in which indeed I am
apt to think you kept the conclusion rather too much in view, or perhaps
you forgot the beginning altogether, which is not unfrequently the case
with you; but you do these things with so little compunction, that I
shall very soon cease to forgive you, and answer you in the same manner.
It is to be feared, that the dissolution of our correspondence will
immediately follow, or dwindle into half a page of your text hand, which
I always looked upon as a detestable invention: if all this that I dread
happens, we shall then cease to be reckoned men of LETTERS.
I find it recorded in the history of the eastern Roman Empire, that it
was the custom whenever the inhabitants of Constantinople mutinied for
want of bread, to whip all the bakers through the city, which always
appeased the populace; in like manner, Boswell, I having dreamt a few
nights ago, that I had whipt you severely, find my wrath and resentment
very much mollified; not so much indeed I confess, as if I had really
had the pleasure of actually correcting you, but however I am pretty
well satisfied. You was quite mistaken as to the manner I bore your
silence; I only thought it was a little droll.
Donaldson tells me, that he wants thirty or forty pages to complete his
volume; pray don't let him insert any nonsense to fill it up, but try
John Home[37] and John R----, who I hear is a very good poet; you may
also hint the thing to Mr. N----, and to my brother, Lord K----, who has
some excellent poems by him.
[Footnote 37: The author of "Douglas."--ED.]
Since I saw you, I received a letter from Mr. D----; it is filled with
encomiums upon you: he says there is a great deal of humility in your
vanity, a great deal of tallness in your shortness, and a great deal of
whiteness in your black complexion. He says there is a great deal of
poetry in your prose, and a great deal of prose in your poetry. He says,
that as to your late publication, there is a great deal of Ode in your
dedication, and a great deal of dedication in your Ode; it would amaze
you to see how D---- keeps up this see-saw, which you'll remark has
prodigious wit in it. He says there is a great deal of coat in your
waistcoat, and a great deal of waistcoat in your coat; that there is a
great deal of liveliness in your stupidity, and a great deal of
stupidity in your liveliness; but to write you all he says, would
require rather more fire in my grate, than there is at present; and my
fingers would undoubtedly be numbed, for there is a great deal of snow
in this frost, and a great deal of frost in this snow: in short, upon
this occasion he writes like a Christian and a Poet, and a Physician and
an Orator, and a Jew.
Pray, Boswell, tell me particularly in your first letter, how Fingal has
been received; that book will serve me as a criterion, to discover the
taste of the present age. Boswell, imitate me in your writing; observe
how closely the lines are joined, how near the words are written to one
another, and how small the letters are formed; I am praiseworthy in this
particular. Adieu. Yours sincerely,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
* * * * *
LETTER XVIII.
Edinburgh, Jan. 22, 1762.
Dear ERSKINE,--I would not for all the books in Donaldson's shop that
our correspondence should cease. Rather, much rather would I trot a
horse in the hottest day in summer, between Fort George and Aberdeen;
rather, much rather would I hold the office of him who every returning
noon plays upon the music-bells of the good town of Edinburgh;[38] and
rather, much rather would I be condemned to pass the next seven years of
my life, as a spiritless student at the college of Glasgow.
[Footnote 38: "All the people of business at Edinburgh, and even the
genteel company may be seen standing in crowds every day, from one to
two in the afternoon, in the open street.... The company are entertained
with a variety of tunes, played upon a set of bells, fixed in a steeple
hard by. As these bells are well toned, and the musician, who has a
salary from the city for playing upon them with keys, is no bad
performer, the entertainment is really agreeable, and very striking to
the ears of a stranger."--"Humphry Clinker," vol. ii., p. 223.--ED.]
Let our wit, my friend, continue to shine in a succession of brilliant
sparkles. Let there be no more distance between each flash of vivacity,
but what is necessary for giving time to observe its splendid radiance.
I hope I shall never again approach so near the clod of clay. I hope the
fire of my genius shall never again be so long in kindling, or so much
covered up with the dross of stupidity.
I have desired Donaldson to cause his correspondent at London, to send
a copy of the first volume of his collection to each of the Reviews,
that is to say, to Hamilton[39] and Griffiths, with whose names the
slate-blue covers of these awful oracles of criticism are inscribed.
[Footnote 39: Hamilton was the proprietor of "The Critical Review." Its
first editor was Smollett. Griffiths was the proprietor of "The Monthly
Review." Goldsmith worked for him for some time. Griffiths was fool
enough to venture, with the aid of his wife, to correct Goldsmith's
compositions.--See Forster's "Life of Goldsmith."--ED.]
Donaldson has yet about thirty-six pages of the second Volume to print.
I have given him two hundred lines more. He is a loadstone of prodigious
power, and attracts all my poetic needles. The Volume will be out next
week; the different pieces of which it is composed are, to be sure, not
all of equal merit. But is not that the case in every miscellaneous
collection, even in that excellent one published by Mr. Dodsley? The
truth is, that a volume printed in a small type exhausts an infinite
quantity of _copy_ (to talk technically) so that we must not be
over-nice in our choice, nor think every man in our ranks below size,
who does not come up to the elevated standard of Captain Andrew.
D----'s encomiums have rendered my humility still prouder; they are
indeed superb, and worthy of an opposer of the German war. I suppose
they have not lost a bit of beef by their long journey, and I should
imagine that the Highland air has agreed well with them, and that they
have agreed well with the Highland air. They occasioned much laughter in
my heart, and much heart in my laughter.
They have at last given over marrying me; so that I am going about like
a horse wanting a halter, ready to be bridled and saddled by the first
person who is so very fortunate as to lay hold of me. A simile not to be
found in any author ancient or modern.
We had a splendid ball at the Abbey of Holyrood-house, on the Queen's
birthday, given by Colonel Graeme. I exhibited my existence in a minuet,
and as I was dressed in a full chocolate suit, and wore my most solemn
countenance, I looked as you used to tell me, like the fifth act of a
deep Tragedy. Lord K---- danced with Miss C----, by the fire of whose
eyes, his melodious lordship's heart is at present in a state of
combustion. Such is the declaration which he makes in loud whispers many
a time and oft.
Our friend H---- S---- is in town this winter. He is a most surprising
old fellow. I am told he is some years past sixty; and yet he has all
the vivacity and frolic, and whim of the sprightliest youth. He
continues to rank all mankind under the general denomination of Gilbert.
He patrols the streets at midnight as much as ever, and beats with as
much vigour the town-guard drum; nor is his affection for the company of
blind fiddlers, in the least abated.
Fingal has been very warmly received at London. A second edition of it
is just now come out. The public taste you will allow is good at
present: long may it last. Long may the voice of the venerable bard be
heard with unaffected pleasure.
I see your regiment is ordered for England. I hope you will be allowed
to recruit, or have leave of absence, as it would be very severe upon
you to be moved from your present situation.
If you will number the lines in our pages, you will find I have
twenty-three, whereas you have only eighteen.
I enclose you the sorrowful lamentation of a stabler called Hutchison,
who, on Wednesday last was whipt through this town, for forcing away a
young man as a recruit, and beating him unmercifully. The said
lamentation you will find is in verse; and although sold for a single
penny, is a work of remarkable merit. The exordium is a passionate
address to Captains all; amongst whom, who can more properly be reckoned
than Captain Andrew?
I remain your sincere friend,
JAMES BOSWELL.
* * * * *
LETTER XIX.
Morpeth, Feb. 7th, 1762.
Dear BOSWELL,--And lo I am at Morpeth, after meeting with every accident
that could possibly happen to a man in a post-chaise, overturns,
breaking of springs, dropping of wheels, and sticking in roads, though
with four horses. We imagine we are to remain in this town some time.
Upon looking over my poems, in the second volume, I find several errors;
I'm afraid you have not corrected the press so violently as you boasted.
Perhaps, Boswell, this will be the worst and the shortest letter I ever
wrote to you; I'm writing in an inn, and half-a-dozen people in the
room; but when I'm settled in lodgings of my own, expect epistles in the
usual style. I think you two or three times have treated me as I treat
you now, so
I remain your most humble servant,
And affectionate friend,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
P.S.--Never was there such a tame subjected performance as this.
* * * * *
LETTER XX.
Morpeth, Feb. 8, 1762.
Dear BOSWELL,--I beg you will get a copy of the second volume of the
Poems, and send me it by the man who brings you this; let it be a neat
one, well-bound: pray tell me what people say of the book. Your
currant-jelly is good, has a delicious flavour, and tastes much of the
fruit, as my aunts say. I did not make out all the names in your
Race-Ballad cleverly.
I am still in the way I was, when I wrote you last, in a public-house,
and pestered with noise: I have not above six ideas at present, and none
of them fit for a letter. Dear Boswell, farewell! pray for my recovery
from this lethargy of spirits and sense which has seized me.
Yours, &c.
ANDREW ERSKINE.
* * * * *
LETTER XXI.
Edinburgh, Feb. 16, 1762.
Dear ERSKINE,--To see your brother ---- at Morpeth, will, I dare say,
surprise you as much as it did me, to find him here. In short, nothing
will serve him but a sight of the British capital, although he is
already much better acquainted with it than either you or I.
What has at present instigated him I own I am puzzled to discover: but I
solemnly and merrily declare, that I never yet saw anybody so
excessively enamoured of London. The effects of this violent passion are
deeply impressed upon every feature in his countenance, his nose not
excepted, which is absolutely most surprising. His body is tossed and
shaken like one afflicted with the hot fit of an ague, or the severest
paroxysms of convulsion. Then as to his mind, it is altogether
distempered. He is perpetually declaiming on the magnificence, the
liberty, and the pleasure, which reigns in the imperial British
metropolis. He swears, that in that glorious place alone we can enjoy
life. He says, there is no breathing beyond St. James's; and he affirms,
that the air of that delicious spot is celestial. He says, there is no
wit except at the Bedford; no military genius but at George's; no wine
but at the Star and Garter; no turbot except at the Tilt-Yard. He
asserts, that there are no clothes made beyond the liberties of
Westminster; and he firmly holds Cheapside to be the sole mart of
stockings. It would fill up two-thirds of a quarto volume to enumerate
the various extravagant exclamations into which he breaks out. He
declares that for his own part, he will never go to church except to St.
Paul's, nor to a lady's private lodgings, except in the neighbourhood of
Soho-square.
I beg it of you, my friend, be very attentive to him; observe his
appearance and behaviour with the greatest accuracy, so that between us
we may be able to have a pretty just notion of this wonderful affair,
and may faithfully draw up his case to be read before the Royal Society,
and transmitted to posterity in these curious annals the Philosophical
Transactions.
I have sent you the second volume, which Donaldson begs leave to present
you with, in consideration of your being one of those who bear the brunt
of the day. He has also done me the same honour. No plain shop copy; no,
no, elegantly bound and gilt.
Adieu, yours sincerely,
JAMES BOSWELL.
* * * * *
LETTER XXII.
Morpeth, March 2, 1762.
Oh, BOSWELL! if you found yourself in the middle of the Firth of Forth,
and the sea fast up-springing through every leak, after the skipper had
remonstrated, in the most warm manner, against proceeding to cross the
water; or if, like me, you found yourself in the midst of a sentence,
without knowing how to end it, you could not feel more pain than I do at
this instant: in short, I have had a very excellent letter of yours in
my left waistcoat-pocket this fortnight; is that letter answered? you
say: Oh! let the reply to this question be buried in the bottom of the
Red Sea, where I hope no future army will ever disturb it; or let it be
inserted in the third volume of Donaldson's Collection, where it will
never be found, as the book will never be opened. What would I not do to
gain your pardon? I would even swear that black was white; that's to
say, I would praise the fairness of your complexion.
By that smile which irradiates your countenance, like a gleam of the
moon through the black clouds of the south; by the melting of that
pomatum which gives your hair a gloss, like the first beaming of a new
suit of regimentals on an assembly night, when twenty fiddlers sweat; by
the grandeur of your pinchbeck buckles; by the solemnity of your small
nose; by the blue expended in washing your shirts; by the rotundity of
your Bath great-coat; by the well-polished key of your portmanteau; by
the tag of your shoe; by the tongue of your buckle; by your tailor's
bill; by the last kiss of Miss C----; by the first guinea you ever had
in your possession; and chiefly by all the nonsense you have just read,
let the kneeling Captain find favour in your eyes, and then, my Ode to
Goodnature shall be inscribed to you, while your Ode to Ingratitude
(which, I suppose, is finished) shall be burnt.
I was, as you imagine, very much surprised to see A---- here; I noted
him, according to your direction, with a critical eye; like a gentleman
in a line which you may remember I made on the Castle-hill, he seemed to
have taken the Tower of London for his bride; every feature and every
limb was changed wonderfully; his nose resembled Westminster-Bridge; his
cheeks were like Bloomsbury-Square; his high forehead like
Constitution-Hill; his chin like China-Row; his tongue and his teeth
looked like Almack's in Pall-Mall; his lips like the Shakespeare's Head;
his fists like Hockley-in-the-Hole; his ears like the Opera-House; his
eyes like a harlequin entertainment; his stomach was like Craven-Street;
his chest like the trunk-maker's in the corner of St. Paul's-Church-yard;
the calf of his leg like Leadenhall-market; his pulse like the
Green-market in Covent-Garden; his neck like Tyburn; and his gait like
Newgate; his navel like Fleet-street; and his lungs and his bladder were
like Blowbladder-street: everything about him seemed metamorphosed; he
had moulded his hat into the form of the Mansion-House; some guineas
which he had, looked like the 'Change; but it would be tedious to relate
every particular; however, I must not let his conversation be forgot,
though it was much of a piece with that you so humorously relate: he
swore to me he never saw a rag fit for a gentleman to wear, but in
Rag-fair; he said there was no scolding but at Billingsgate; and he
avowed there were no bad poets but in Grub-street; I could not stand
that, I bid him call to remembrance an acquaintance of his who lived in
the Parliament-Close, and also a relation of his who formerly resided in
Campbell's Land; he smiled, and confessed these were really very bad
poets, but that he was not convinced for all that; upon this, to put
the matter out of all dispute, I offered to lend him the first and
second volumes of Donaldson's Collection. At that very moment the
hostler informed him the chaise was ready, and he still remains ignorant
where the worst poets in the world are. Tell me how our second volume is
received; I was much pleased with N----'s lines; how did he get them
inserted? I intend writing a criticism upon the volume, and upon your
writings in particular, so tremble.
Dear Boswell, farewell,
Yours most affectionately,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
P.S.--I hope you'll write to me soon.
* * * * *
LETTER XXIII.
Edinburgh, March 9, 1762.
Dear ERSKINE,--Can a man walk up the Cowgate after a heavy rain without
dirtying his shoes? I might have said the soles of his shoes:--and,
indeed, to put the matter beyond dispute, I would yet have you to
understand me so; for although nothing is so common as to use a part for
the whole; yet if you should be out of humour with a bad dinner, a bad
lodging, an ill-dressed shirt, or an ill-printed book, you might be
disposed to cavil, and object, that in critical precision of language,
(supposing a man to walk slow) he could not be said to have dirtied his
shoes, no more than a boarding-school girl, who has cut her finger in
paring an apple, could be said to have mangled her carcase.
But to proceed; can a man make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land from the
Island of Great Britain, without the aid of navigation? Can a man walk
in the Mall at noon, carrying his breeches upon an enormous long pole,
without being laughed at? Can a man of acknowledged ignorance and
stupidity, write a tragedy superior to Hamlet? or a genteel comedy
superior to the Careless Husband?[40] I need not wait for an answer. No
word but no, will do: it is self-evident. No more, my friend, can he who
is lost in dissipation, write a letter. I am at present so
circumstanced; accept this short line in answer to your last, and write
very soon to
Your affectionate Friend,
JAMES BOSWELL.
[Footnote 40: By Colley Cibber. "Who upon earth has written such perfect
comedies (as Molière)? for the 'Careless Husband' is but one."--Horace
Walpole, Aug. 29, 1785.--ED.]
* * * * *
LETTER XXIV.
New-Tarbat, April 15, 1762.
Dear BOSWELL,--The sun which rose on Wednesday last, with his first
beams beheld you set out for Auchinleck, but he did not see me arrive in
Edinburgh; however, he was good-natured enough to lend a little light to
the moon, by the help of which, about twelve at night I landed at Peter
Ramsay's: the thoughts of seeing you next day kept up my spirits,
during a stage of seventeen miles. William he snored; I called upon you,
after being refreshed with soft slumbers, in which my guardian genius
did not inform me of your absence: but oh! when the maid told me you was
gone, what were my emotions! she beholding me affected in a most supreme
degree, tried to administer comfort to me, and plainly told me, that you
would be very sorry you had missed me, this delivered in an elegant
manner, soothed me prodigiously.
I began writing this at Graham's in Glasgow, but was interrupted by a
jowl of Salmon; every thing there reminded me of you. I was in the same
room you and I were in, you seemed placed before me, your face beamed a
black ray upon me.
I am now at New-Tarbat, once more returned to the scenes of calm
retirement, and placid meditation, as Mr. Samuel Johnson says in the
Idler.[41] We all wish to have you here, and we all agree in thinking
that there is nothing to hinder you to come.
[Footnote 41: "I am now, as I could wish every man of wisdom and virtue
to be, in the regions of calm content and placid meditation."--"The
Idler," No. 71.--ED.]
I must beg your pardon seriously for not writing to you, but I was
really in such bad spirits, and such ill temper, at that cursed place
Morpeth, that it was impossible; but I assure you I will make up
terribly. I am recruiting again; I believe our regiment won't go abroad
this summer. I was glad to see by the London newspapers, that Mr. Robert
Dodsley had at last published your Cub: Mr. H---- showed me a very
severe Epigram that somebody in London had written upon it. You know it
is natural to take a lick at a Cub. Pray come to us. I cannot all at
once come into the way of letter-writing again, so I must conclude,
Dear Boswell,
Your affectionate friend,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
* * * * *
LETTER XXV.
Auchinleck, April 22, 1762.