Boswells Correspondence with the Honourable Andrew Erskine, and His Journal of a Tour to Corsica | Page 5

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