in a very odd manner. Every day produces something more wonderful than
another. Earthquakes, murders, conflagrations, inundations, jubilees,
operas, marriages, and pestilence, unite to make mortal men gape and
stare. But your last letter and mine being wrote on the same day,
astonishes me still more than all these things put together.
This is the most unaccountable rhodomontade that I ever uttered. I am
really dull at present, and my affectation to be clever, is exceedingly
awkward. My manner resembles that of a footman who has got an ensign's
commission, or a kept mistress who is made a wife.
I have not at any time been more insipid, more muddy, and more
standing-water like than I am just now. The country is my aversion. It
renders me quite torpid. Were you here just now, you would behold your
vivacious friend a most stupid exhibition. It is very surprising that
the country should affect me so; whether it be that the scenes to be met
with there, fall infinitely short of my ideas of pastoral simplicity; or
that I have acquired so strong a relish for the variety and hurry of a
town life, as to languish in the stillness of retirement; or that the
atmosphere is too moist and heavy, I shall not determine.
I have now pretty good hopes of getting soon into the guards, that gay
scene of life of which I have been so long and so violently enamoured.
Surely this will cause you to rejoice.
I have lately had the pleasure and the pride of receiving a most
brilliant epistle from Lady B----. It excels Captain Andrew's letters by
many degrees. I have picked as many diamonds out of it, as to make me a
complete set of buckles; I have turned so much of it into brocade
waistcoats, and so much into a very rich suit of embroidered
horse-furniture. I know how unequal I am to the task of answering it;
nevertheless present her Ladyship with the inclosed. It may amuse her a
little. It is better to have two shillings in the pound, than nothing at
all.
I was really shocked at the lethargy of our correspondence. Let it now
be renovated with increase of spirit, so that I may not only subscribe
myself your sincere friend, but your witty companion,
JAMES BOSWELL.
* * * * *
LETTER XXVI.
New-Tarbat, May 1, 1762.
Well then, my friend, you leave the bar,
Resolv'd on drums, on dress, and war,
While fancy paints in liveliest hues,
Swords, sashes, shoulder-knots, reviews,
You quit the study of the laws,
And show a blade in Britain's cause,
Of length to throw into a trance,
The frighten'd kings of Spain and France!
A hat of fiercest cock is sought,
And your cockade's already bought,
While on your coat there beams a lace,
That might a captain-general grace!
For me, who never show admir'd,
Or very long ago was tir'd,
I can with face unmov'd behold,
A scarlet suit with glittering gold;
And tho' a son of war and strife,
Detest the listless languid life;
Then coolly, Sir, I say repent,
And in derision hold a tent;
Leave not the sweet poetic band,
To scold recruits, and pore on Bland,[42]
Our military books won't charm ye,
Not even th' enchanting list o' th' army.
Trust me, 'twill be a foolish sight,
To see you facing to the right;
And then, of all your sense bereft,
Returning back unto the left;
Alas! what transport can you feel,
In turning round on either heel?
Much sooner would I choose indeed,
To see you standing on your head;
Or with your breeches off to rub
Foul clothes, and dance within a tub.
[Footnote 42: Humphrey Bland, author of "Military Discipline," (1727).
He served under the Duke of Marlborough. Was present also at the battles
of Dettingen and Fontenoy. Became colonel of the Second Dragoon
Guards.--ED.]
Besides, my dear Boswell, we find in all history ancient and modern,
lawyers are very apt to run away. Demosthenes the Greek, writer to the
signet, who managed the great suit against Philip of Macedon, fairly
scoured off, I think, at the battle of Cheronea; and Cicero, the Roman
advocate is universally accused of cowardice. I am not indeed ignorant
that some of your ancestors behaved well at Flodden;[43] but as they
lost the day, I think the omen but bad, and as they were killed, I think
that makes the omen still worse; however, perhaps you don't think so,
and I allow that argument to be very convincing, and rather more
conclusive, than if you had said, "I don't know that."
[Footnote 43: "Thomas Boswell obtained from James IV., as a signal mark
of royal favour, the estate of Auchinleck. He was slain at
Flodden."--"Memoir of James Boswell," by Rev. C. Rogers, p. 3.--ED.]
You complain much of the country, and you assign various reasons for
disliking it; among others, you imagine the atmosphere too moist and
heavy; I agree with you in that opinion, all the black clouds in the sky
are continually pressing upon you, for as the proverb says, Like draws
to like. Believe me, I have sometimes taken you at a distance, for the
pillar of smoke which used to accompany the Israelites out of Egypt; it
would be impossible to tell how many things I have taken you for at
different times; sometimes I have taken you for the witches' cauldron in
Macbeth; this resemblance was in some degree warranted by your figure
and shape; sometimes for an enormous ink-bottle; sometimes for a funeral
procession; now and then for a chimney sweeper, and not unfrequently for
a black-pudding. For my part, Boswell, I must confess I am fond of the
country to a degree; things there are not so artificially disguised as
in towns, real sentiments are discovered, and the passions play
naturally and without restraint. As for example, it was only in the
country I could have found out Lady J----'s particular attachment to the
tune of _Appie Mac-Nab_; in the town, no doubt, she would have pretended
a great liking for Voi Amante; in the town, I never would have seen Lady
B---- go out armed for fear of the Turkey-cock, which is her daily
practice here, and leaves room for numberless reflections: she cannot
eat Turkeys when roasted or boiled; and she dreads them when alive so
much, that she displays every forenoon a cudgel to them, fitted by its
size to strike terror into a bull, or a butting cow. What can her
keeping of Turkeys be owing to? Assuredly to vanity, which is of such an
insinuating nature, that we are apt very often to meet it where we least
expect it; I have seen it in an old shoe, in a dirty shirt, in a long
nose, a crooked leg, and a red face. So much it seemed good for me to
say upon the subject of vanity, supporting by the most irrefragable
arguments, the doctrine of Solomon.
We had a visit from Mr. C---- of S---- here this morning; he came in a
chaise drawn by four bay horses; I am certain of the number, you may
draw what inference you please from this intelligence, I give you only a
simple narration of the fact. I am surprised you say nothing of my
proposal of your coming here, and still more that you say nothing of
your Cub. Why don't you send me a copy? We were all so much entertained
with your letter to Lady B----, that I was really seized with a qualm of
envy; we regard it as one of those efforts of genius, which are only
produced by a fine flow of spirits, a beautiful day, and a good pen.
I pray you, Boswell, note well this sheet of paper, its size is
magnificent: If Lady B---- was possessed of such an extent of plain
ground, she would undoubtedly throw it into a lawn, and plant it with
clumps of trees, she would vary it with fish-ponds, and render it rural
with flocks; here, where I am writing, might a cow feed; here might be
an arbour; here, perhaps, might you recline at full length; by the edge
of this stream might the Captain walk, and in this corner, might Lady
B---- give orders to her shepherds. I am drawn in the most irresistible
manner to conclude, by the external impulse of the cloth's being laid,
and by the internal impulse of being hungry. Believe me, Boswell, to be
in the most unconscionable manner, your affectionate friend,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
P.S.--I send you franks, which return filled with the utmost wit and
humour.
* * * * *
LETTER XXVII.
Auchinleck, May 4, 1762.
For military operation[44]
I have a wondrous inclination;
Ev'n when a boy, with cheerful glee,
The red-coats march I used to see;
With joy beheld the corporals drill,
The men upon the Castle-hill;
And at the sound of drum and fife,
Felt an unusual flow of life.
Besides, my honest friend, you know
I am a little of a beau.
I'm sure, my friend need not be told,
That Boswell's hat was edg'd with gold;
And that a shining bit of lace,
My brownish-colour'd suit did grace;
And that mankind my hair might see,
Powder'd at least two days in three.
My pinchbeck buckles are admir'd
By all who are with taste inspir'd.
Trophies of Gallic pride appear,
The crown to every Frenchman dear,
And the enchanting fleur de lis,
The flower of flowers you must agree;
While for variety's sweet sake,
And witty Charles's tale to wake,
The curious artist interweaves
A twisted bunch of oaken leaves.
Tell me, dear Erskine, should not I
My favourite path of fortune try?
Our life, my friend, is very short,
A little while is all we've for't;
And he is blest who can beguile,
With what he likes, that little while.
[Footnote 44: I have omitted the first eighty lines of this poem.--ED.]
My fondness for the guards must appear very strange to you, who have a
rooted antipathy at the glare of scarlet. But I must inform you, that
there is a city called London, for which I have as violent an affection
as the most romantic lover ever had for his mistress. There a man may
indeed soap his own beard, and enjoy whatever is to be had in this
transitory state of things. Every agreeable whim may be freely indulged
without censure. I hope, however, you will not impute my living in
England, to the same cause for which Hamlet was advised to go there;
because the people were all as mad as himself.
I long much for another of our long conversations on a fine forenoon,
after breakfast, while the sun sheds light and gladness around us.
Believe me,
Yours sincerely,
JAMES BOSWELL.
* * * * *
LETTER XXVIII.
Auchinleck, May 8, 1762.
Dear ERSKINE,--I should have wondered very much, had I been told of Lady
J----'s particular attachment to the tune of _Appie Mac-nab_, two months
ago: but I must inform you, that a few days before I left Edinburgh,
having occasion to look into the advocates' library, I there chanced to
turn up an old Roman song-book, and, to my great surprise, met with the
individual air of _Appie Mac-nab_, which I discovered to be part of an
original Patrician cantata on the daughter of the famous Appius, set for
the _Tibiæ sinistræ_. In a manuscript marginal note, it is said to have
been composed by Tigellius the famous musician, whose death and
character Horace takes occasion to entertain and instruct us with, in
the second satire of his first Book. You see, therefore, that Lady
J----'s taste for Italian music, cannot be called in question; and
indeed, I think her liking _Appie Mac-nab_, is a very strong proof of
it, as she certainly could not know its original. The Roman song-book, a
very great curiosity, was brought from Rome some hundred years ago, by
father Macdonald, an old popish priest, who left it as a legacy to the
Duke of Gordon. It is probable, that some musician in the North of
Scotland, has transcribed the Appian cantata from it, and giving its
principal air a Scottish turn, and adapting proper words to it, has
produced the vulgar ballad of _Appie Mac-nab_.
Lady B----'s terror for the Turkey-cock, diverts me extremely. Did they
but come to an engagement, how noble must it be! The idea makes a strong
impression on my fancy. I shall certainly write something astonishing
upon it.
This charming weather has reconciled me to the country. It enlivens me
exceedingly. I am cheerful and happy. I have been wandering by myself,
all this forenoon, through the sweetest place in the world. The sunshine
is mild, the breeze is gentle, my mind is peaceful. I am indulging the
most agreeable reveries imaginable. I am thinking of the brilliant
scenes of happiness, which I shall enjoy as an officer of the guards.
How I shall be acquainted with all the grandeur of a court, and all the
elegance of dress and diversions; become a favourite of ministers of
state, and the adoration of ladies of quality, beauty, and fortune! How
many parties of pleasure shall I have in town! How many fine jaunts to
the noble seats of dukes, lords, and members of parliament in the
country! I am thinking of the perfect knowledge which I shall acquire of
men and manners, of the intimacies which I shall have the honour to
form with the learned and ingenious in every science, and of the many
amusing literary anecdotes which I shall pick up. I am thinking of
making the tour of Europe, and feasting on the delicious prospects of
Italy and France; of feeling all the transports of a bard at Rome, and
writing noble poems on the banks of the Tiber. I am thinking of the
distinguished honours which I shall receive at every foreign court, and
of what infinite service I shall be to all my countrymen upon their
travels. I am thinking of returning to England, of getting into the
house of commons, of speaking still better than Mr. Pitt, and of being
made principal secretary of state. I am thinking of having a regiment of
guards, and of making a glorious stand against an invasion by the
Spaniards. I am thinking how I shall marry a lady of the highest
distinction, with a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds. I am thinking
of my flourishing family of children; how my sons shall be men of sense
and spirit, and my daughters women of beauty, and every amiable
perfection. I am thinking of the prodigious respect which I shall
receive, of the splendid books which will be dedicated to me, and the
statues which will be erected to my immortal honour.
I am thinking that my mind is too delicate, and my feelings too fine for
the rough bustle of life; I am therefore thinking that I shall steal
silently and unperceived through the world; that I shall pass the winter
in London, much in the same way that the Spectator describes himself to
have done; and in summer, shall live sometimes here at home; sometimes
in such a pleasing retirement as Mrs. Row beautifully paints in her
letters moral and entertaining.[45] I like that book much. I read it
when I was very young, and I am persuaded, that it contributed to
improve my tender imagination. I am thinking that I shall feel my frame
too delicate for the British Climate. I am thinking that I shall go and
live in one of the most pleasant provincial towns in the South of
France, where I shall be blest with constant felicity. This is a scheme
to which I could give vast praise, were I near the beginning of my
letter; but as that is very far from being the case, I must reserve it
for a future epistle.
[Footnote 45: "Letters, Moral and Entertaining, in Prose and Verse," by
Elizabeth Rowe.--ED.]
I am glad to find you are so anxious to hear about the Cub at Newmarket,
Love me, love my Cub. However, I can tell you nothing about him. Dodsley
has not yet sent me a copy.
Derrick,[46] a London author, whom you have heard me mention, has sent
me his versifications of the battle of Lora, and some of the Erse
fragments. If you want to see them, let me have some franks.
[Footnote 46: "Pray, Sir," said Mr. Morgann to Johnson, "whether do you
reckon Derrick or Smart the best poet?" Johnson at once felt himself
roused; and answered, "Sir, there is no settling the point of precedency
between a louse and a flea." Boswell's "Life of Johnson." Date of March
30th, 1783.--ED.]
I shall be at Dumfries soon, where I hope to see my friend Johnston. We
will talk much of old Scotch history, and the memory of former years
will warm our hearts. We will also talk of Captain Andrew, with whom we
have passed many a pleasant hour. Johnston is a very worthy fellow: I
may safely say so; for I have lived in intimacy with him more years than
the Egyptian famine lasted.
And now, O most renowned of Captains! having fairly written myself out
of pen, ink, and paper, I conclude with my usual epithet, of
Your affectionate friend,
JAMES BOSWELL.
* * * * *
LETTER XXIX.
New-Tarbat, May 13, 1762.
Dear BOSWELL,--Your first epistle being of a length which modern letters
seldom attain to, surprised me very much; but at the sight of your
second, consisting of such an exuberant number of sheets, I was no less
amazed than if I had wakened at three o'clock in the morning, and found
myself fast clasped in the arms of the empress Queen; or if I had found
myself at the mouth of the river Nile, half-eaten by a crocodile; or if
I had found myself ascending the fatal ladder in the Grass-market at
Edinburgh, and Mr. Alexander Donaldson the hangman. To confess a truth,
I imagine your funds for letter-writing are quite inexhaustible; and
that the fire of your fancy, like the coal at Newcastle, will never be
burnt out; indeed, I look upon you in the light of an old stocking, in
which we have no sooner mended one hole, than out starts another; or I
think you are like a fertile woman, who is hardly delivered of one
child, before slap she is five months gone with a second. I need not
tell you your letters are entertaining; I might as well acquaint King
George the Third, that he is sovereign of Great Britain, or gravely
disclose to my servant, that his name is William. It is superfluous to
inform people of what it is impossible they should not know.
You think you have a knack of story-telling, but there you must yield to
me, if you hearken attentively to what I am about to disclose, you will
be convinced; it is a tale, my dear Boswell, which whether we consider
the turnings and windings of fortune, or the sadness of the catastrophe,
is delightful and improving.--You demand of me, Sir, a faithful recital
of the events which have distinguished my life. Though the remembrance
of every misfortune which can depress human nature, must be painful; yet
the commands of such a revered friend as James Boswell must be obeyed;
and Oh, Sir! if you find any of my actions blamable, impute them to
destiny, and if you find any of them commendable, impute them to my good
sense. I am about fifty years of age, grief makes me look as if I was
fourscore; thirty years ago I was a great deal younger; and about twenty
years before that, I was just born; as I find nothing remarkable in my
life, before that event, I shall date my history from that period; some
omens happened at my birth: Mr. Oman at Leith was married at that time;
this was thought very portentous; the very day my mother was brought to
bed of me, the cat was delivered of three kittens; but the world was
soon bereaved of them by death, and I had not the pleasure of passing
my infancy with such amiable companions; this was my first misfortune,
and no subsequent one ever touched me more nearly; delightful innocents!
methinks, I still see them playing with their tails, and galloping after
corks; with what a becoming gravity did they wash their faces! how
melodious was their purring! From them I derived any little taste I have
for music; I composed an Ode upon their death; as it was my first
attempt in poetry, I write it for your perusal; you will perceive the
marks of genius in the first production of MY TENDER IMAGINATION; and
you will shed a tear of applause and sorrow, on the remains of those
animals, so dear to the premature years of your mourning and lamenting
friend.
ODE
ON THE DEATH OF THREE KITTENS.
STROPHE.
Attend, ye watchful cats,
Attend the ever lamentable strain;
For cruel death, most kind to rats,
Has kill'd the sweetest of the kitten-train.
ANTISTROPHE.
How pleas'd did I survey,
Your beauteous whiskers as they daily grew,
I mark'd your eyes that beam'd so grey,
But little thought that nine lives were too few.
EPODE.
It was delight to see
My lovely kittens three,
When after corks through all the room they flew,
When oft in gamesome guise they did their tails pursue.
When thro' the house,
You hardly, hardly, heard a mouse;
And every rat lay snug and still,
And quiet as a thief in mill;
But cursed death has with a blow,
Laid all my hopes low, low, low, low:
Had that foul fiend the least compassion known;
I should not now lament my beauteous kittens gone.
You have often wondered what made me such a miserable spectacle; grief
for the death of my kittens, has wrought the most wonderful effects upon
me; grief has drawn my teeth, pulled out my hair, hollowed my eyes, bent
my back, crooked my legs, and marked my face with the small-pox; but I
give over this subject, seeing it will have too great a hold of your
tender imagination: I find myself too much agitated with melancholy to
proceed any longer in my life to-day; the weather also is extremely bad,
and a thousand mournful ideas rush into my mind; I am totally
overpowered with them; I will now disburden myself to you, and set down
each sad thought as it occurs.
I am thinking how I will never get a clean shirt to my back; how my coat
will always be out at the elbows; and how I never will get my breeches
to stay up. I am thinking how I will be married to a shrew of a wife,
who will beat me every evening and morning, and sometimes in the middle
of the day. I am thinking what a d----d w---- she will be, and how my
children will be most of them hanged, and whipped through towns, and
burnt in the hand. I am thinking of what execrable poems I will write;
and how I will be thrown into prison for debt; and how I will never get
out again; and how nobody will pity me. I am thinking how hungry I will
be; and how little I will get to eat; and how I'll long for a piece of
roast-beef; and how they'll bring me a rotten turnip. And I am thinking
how I will take a consumption, and waste away inch by inch; and how I'll
grow very fat and unwieldy, and won't be able to stir out of my chair.
And I am thinking how I'll be roasted by the Portuguese inquisition; and
how I'll be impaled by the Turks; and how I'll be eaten by Cannibals;
and how I'll be drowned on a voyage to the East Indies; and how I'll be
robbed and murdered by a highwayman; and how I'll lose my senses; and
how very mad I'll be; and how my body will be thrown out to dogs to
devour; and how I'll be hanged, drawn, and quartered; and how my friend
Boswell will neglect me; and how I'll be despised by the whole world;
and how I will meet with ten thousand misfortunes worse than the loss of
my kittens.
Thus have I, in a brief manner, related a few of the calamities which,
in the present disposition of my mind, appear so dreadful; I could have
enlarged the catalogue, but your heart is too susceptible of pity, and I
will not shock you altogether. You will doubtless remark the great
inequality of our fortunes. In your last letter, you was the happiest
man I was ever acquainted with; I wish it may last, and that your
children may have as much merit as you imagine; I only hope you won't
plan a marriage with any of mine, their dispositions will be so unlike,
that it must prove unhappy.
Pray send me Derrick's versifications, which though they are undoubtedly
very bad, I shall be glad to see, as sometimes people take a pleasure in
beholding a man hanged. And now, Boswell, I am going to end my letter,
which being very short, I know will please you, as you will think you
have gained a complete victory over the captain, seeing that you are
several sheets a-head of me; but times may alter, and when I resume my
adventures, you will find yourself sorely defeated; believe me,
Yours sincerely,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
* * * * *
LETTER XXX.
New-Tarbat, May 25, 1762.
Dear BOSWELL,--It has been said, that few people succeed both in poetry
and prose. Homer's prose essay on the gun-powder-plot, is reckoned by
all critics inferior to the Iliad; and Warburton's rhyming satire on the
methodists is allowed by all to be superior to his prosaical notes on
Pope's works. Let it be mine to unite the excellencies both of prose and
verse in my inimitable epistles. From this day, my prose shall have a
smack of verse, and my verse have a smack of prose. I'll give you a
specimen of both--My servant addresses me in these words, very often--
The roll is butter'd, and the kettle boil'd,
Your honour's newest coat with grease is soil'd;
In your best breeches glares a mighty hole,
Your wash-ball and pomatum, Sir, are stole.
Your tailor, Sir, must payment have, that's plain,
He call'd to-day, and said he'd call again.