Boswells Correspondence with the Honourable Andrew Erskine, and His Journal of a Tour to Corsica | Page 6

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