Boswells Correspondence with the Honourable Andrew Erskine, and His Journal of a Tour to Corsica | Page 7

some vast Savannah
rude and wild, Where Europe's sons of slaughter never smil'd, With
fiend-like arts, insidious to betray The sooty natives as a lawful prey.
At you th' astonish'd savages shall stare, And hail you as a God, and
call you fair: Your blooming beauty shall unrivall'd shine, And Captain
Andrew's whiteness yield to thine.[10]
[Footnote 8: The Soaping-Club--a Club in Edinburgh, the motto of
which was, "Every Man soap his own Beard;" or, "Every Man indulge
his own Humour." Their game was that facetious one, Snip, Snap,
Snorum.]
[Footnote 9: Barclay and Bainbridge, two members of this Club.]
[Footnote 10: "And Captain Andrew's whiteness, &c." The writers of
these Letters, instead of being rivals in wit, were rivals in complexion.]

In reality, I'm under vast obligations to you. It was you who first made
me thoroughly sensible (indeed I very readily believed it) of the
excellencies of my own Poetry; and about that time, I made two
wonderful discoveries, to wit, that you was a sensible man, and that I
was a good poet; discoveries which I dare say are yet doubted by some
incredulous people. Boswell, I shall not praise your letter, because I
know you have an aversion at being thought a genius, or a wit. The
reluctance with which you always repeat your Cub,[11] and the gravity
of countenance which you always assume upon that occasion, are
convincing proofs of this assertion. You hate flattery, too, but in spite
of your teeth I must tell you, that you are the best Poet, and the most
humorous letter-writer I know; and that you have a finer complexion,
and dance better than any man of my acquaintance. For my part, I
actually think you would make an excellent champion at the
approaching coronation.[12] What though malevolent critics may say
you are too little, yet you are a Briareus in comparison of Tydeus the
hero of Statius's Thebais; and if he was not a warrior, then am I,
Andrew Erskine, Lieutenant in the 71st regiment, blind of one eye,
hump-backed, and lame in both legs. We all tired so much of the
Highlands, that we had not been there three weeks before we all came
away again. Lady B---- is gone a-visiting, and the rest of us are come to
Kelly. It was most unaccountable in me to leave New-Tarbat; for
nowhere will you meet with such fine ingredients for poetical
description. However, we are all going back again when Mr. M----
comes from London; so some time in October you may expect a most
cordial invitation. This is all at present (according to the simple but
eloquent expression of the vulgar) from your sincere friend,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
[Footnote 11: In March, 1762, Boswell published "The Cub at
Newmarket: a Tale." (Dodsley).--ED.]
[Footnote 12: George III. was crowned on September 22nd, of this
year.--ED.]
* * * * *

LETTER III.
Auchinleck, Sept. 14, 1761.
Dear Captain Andrew! Poet of renown! Whether the chairmen of
Edina's town You curious draw, and make 'em justly speak, To use a
vulgar phrase, as clean's a leek; Or smart Epistles, Fables, Songs you
write, All put together handsome trim and tight; Or when your sweetly
plaintive muse does sigh, And elegiac strains you happy try; Or when
in ode sublime your genius soars, Which guineas brings to Donaldson
by scores; Accept the thanks of ME, as quick as sage, Accept sincerest
thanks for ev'ry page, For ev'ry page?--for ev'ry single line Of your rich
letter aided by the Nine.[13]
[Footnote 13: The rest of Boswell's verses--more than a hundred in
number--the reader will thank me for omitting.--ED.]
* * * * *
You are now so heartily tired, that it would be absolutely barbarous to
stun your ears any longer; only give me leave to tell you in one good
round sentence, that your prose is admirable, and that I am just now (at
three o'clock in the morning) sitting over the poor pale remnant of a
once glorious blazing fire, and feasting upon it, till I am all in a Lather.
I cannot stop yet. Allow me a few more words. I live here in a remote
corner of an old ruinous house, where my ancestors have been very
jovial. What a solemn idea rushes on my mind! They are all gone; I
must follow. Well, and what then? Let me shift about to another subject.
The best I can think of is a sound sleep. So good night, and believe me,
Yours,
JAMES BOSWELL.
* * * * *
LETTER IV.

Auchinleck, Oct. 10, 1761.
Dear ERSKINE,--Had Philip of Macedon been saddle-sick with riding
up and down the country after his unruly son Alexander, and been
waiting in extreme pain, till the surgeon of the next village brought him
emollient relief, he