Boswells Correspondence with the Honourable Andrew Erskine, and His Journal of a Tour to Corsica | Page 9

When you come to Edinburgh, I'll
settle an unintermitting correspondence with you.
* * * * *
LETTER VI.
Edinburgh, Nov. 17, 1761.
Dear ERSKINE,--Much much concern does it give me, to find that you
have been in such bad spirits as your last most grievously indicates. I
believe we great geniuses are all a little subject to the sorcery of that
whimsical demon the spleen, which indeed we cannot complain of,
considering what power of enchantment we ourselves possess, by the
sweet magic of our flowing numbers. I would recommend to you to
read Mr. Green's[17] excellent poem upon that subject. He will dispel
the clouds and enliven you immediately. Or if that should not do, you
may have recourse to Xenophon's method, which was boiling potatoes,

and pelting the cats with them, an infallible receipt to promote
risibility.
[Footnote 17: Matthew Green (1696-1737). Author of "The
Spleen."--ED.]
So you too have listened to the report of my marriage, and must
forsooth display a pretty vein of jocularity upon the mournful occasion.
Did you really believe it? If you did, you will never be able to astonish
me with any thing else that is wonderful in your creed, for I shall
reckon your judgment at least three stanzas worse than formerly.
In the name of every thing that is upside down, what could the people
mean by marrying me? If they had boiled me into portable soup, or
hammered me into horse-shoes, I should not have been greatly
surprised. A man who has so deeply pondered on the wonders daily
presented to our view, and who has experienced so many vicissitudes
of fortune, as I have done, can easily make allowance for stranger
things than these. But I own their matrimonial system exceeds my
comprehension.
Happy is it for the world that this affair did not take place. An event so
prodigious must have been attended with very alarming consequences.
For my own part, I tremble when I think of it. Damocles, Nero, and
Richard the Third, would have appeared amiable princes in comparison
of me. Wherever I went I should have carried horror and devastation,
sparing neither sex nor age. All, all should have been sacrificed to my
relentless cruelty. Donaldson is busy printing his second volume. I have
mustered up a few verses for him, some old, some new. I will not boast
of them. But I'll tell you one thing; the volume will be pretty free from
typographical errors: I have the honour to correct the proof-sheets. My
Cub is now with Dodsley. I fancy he will soon make his appearance in
public. I long to see him in his Pall-Mall[18] habit: Though I'm afraid
he will look a little awkward. Write to me often. You shall have the
best answers I can give you.
I remain, yours,

JAMES BOSWELL.
[Footnote 18: Dodsley's shop was in Pall Mall.--ED.]
* * * * *
LETTER VII.
New-Tarbat, Nov. 23, 1761.
Dear BOSWELL,--As we never hear that Demosthenes could broil
beef-steaks, or Cicero poach eggs, we may safely conclude, that these
gentlemen understood nothing of cookery. In like manner it may be
concluded, that you, James Boswell, and I Andrew Erskine, cannot
write serious epistles. This, as Mr. Tristram[19] says, I deny; for this
letter of mine shall contain the quintessence of solidity; it shall be a
piece of boiled beef and cabbage, a roasted goose, and a boiled leg of
pork and greens: in one word, it shall contain advice; sage and mature
advice. Oh! James Boswell! take care and don't break your neck; pray
don't fracture your skull, and be very cautious in your manner of
tumbling down precipices: beware of falling into coal-pits, and don't
drown yourself in every pool you meet with. Having thus warned you
of the most material dangers which your youth and inexperience will be
ready to lead you into, I now proceed to others less momentary indeed,
but very necessary to be strictly observed. Go not near the
Soaping-Club, never mention Drury-lane Playhouse; be attentive to
those Pinchbeck buckles which fortune has so graciously given you, of
which I am afraid you're hardly fond enough; never wash your face, but
above all forswear Poetry: from experience I can assure you, and this
letter may serve as a proof, that a man may be as dull in prose as in
verse; and as dullness is what we aim at, prose is the easiest of the two.
Oh! my friend! profit by these my instructions; think that you see me
studying for your advantage, my reverend locks over-shadowing my
paper, my hands trembling, and my tongue hanging out, a figure of
esteem, affection and veneration. By Heavens! Boswell! I love you
more--But this, I think, may be more conveniently expressed in rhyme
More than