Boswell's Correspondence with the Honourable Andrew Erskine, and His Journal of a Tour to Corsica Part 10

Kelly, July 6, 1762.

Dear BOSWELL,--Nothing happened during my journey; I arrived in Aberdeen on Thursday last; the town is really neater, cleaner, and better than you would imagine; but the country around is dismal; long gloomy moors, and the extended ocean, are the only prospects that present themselves; the whole region seems as if made in direct opposition to descriptive poetry. You meet here with none of the lengthened meads, sunny vales and das.h.i.+ng streams, that brighten in the raptured poet's eye; however, as I believe you have been here, I shall trouble you with no farther descriptions.

Never was parting more tender than that of mine with George Robertson the postilion, and the Kelly chaise at Dundee water-side; we formed as dolorous a trio as then existed upon the face of this valley of tears.

Oh George! Oh! Erskine! were the cries that echoed across the waves, and along the mountains.

Tears trickled down the rugged boatman's face, An unpaid freight he thought no harder case; The seals no longer sported in the sea, While ev'ry bell rung mournful in Dundee, Huge ploughmen wept, and stranger still, 'tis said, So strong is sympathy, that a.s.ses bray'd.

Farewell, lovely George, I roared out, and oh! if you should happen to be dry, for such is the nature of sorrow, take this s.h.i.+lling, and spend it in the sugared ale, or the wind-expelling dram: with sweet reluctance he put forth his milk-white hand, cold with clammy sweat, and with a faltering voice, feebly thanked me. Oh! I shall never forget my emotions when he drove from me, and the chaise lessened in my view; now it whirled sublime along the mountain's edge; now, I scarcely saw the head of George nodding in the vale. Thus, on the summit of a craggy cliff, which high overlooks the resounding waves, Jean, Susan, or Nell, sees in a boat her lovely sailor, who has been torn from her arms by a cruel press-gang; now it climbs the highest seas; now it is buried between two billows, and vanishes from her sight. Weep not, sweet maid, he shall return loaded with honours; a gold watch shall grace each fob, a pair of silver buckles shall s.h.i.+ne resplendent upon his shoes, and a silk handkerchief shall be tied around his neck, which soon shall cover thy snowy bosom.

When the chaise was totally lost, and my breast was distracted with a thousand different pa.s.sions; all of a sudden I broke out into the following soliloquy.--Surely, surely mortal man is a chaise: now trailing through the heavy sand of indolence, anon jolted to death upon the rough road of discontent; and shortly after sunk in the deep rut of low spirits; now galloping on the post-road of expectation, and immediately after, trotting on the stony one of disappointment; but the days of our driving soon cease, our shafts break, our leather rots, and we tumble into a hole.

Adieu, yours,

ANDREW ERSKINE.

LETTER x.x.xVIII.

Kelly, July 7, 1762.

Dear BOSWELL,--I imagined, that by ceasing to write to you for some time, I should be able to lay up a stock of materials, enough to astonish you, and that, like a river damm'd up, when let loose, I should flow on with unusual rapidity; or like a man, who has not beat his wife for a fortnight, I should cudgel you with my wit for hours together; but I find the contrary of all this is the case; I resemble a person long absent from his native country, of which he has formed a thousand endearing ideas, and to which he at last returns; but alas! he beholds with sorrowful eyes, everything changed for the worse; the town where he was born, which used to have two snows[56] and three sloops trading to all parts of the known world, is not now master of two fis.h.i.+ng-boats; the steeple of the church, where he used to sleep in his youth, is rent with lightning; and the girl on whom he had placed his early affections, has had three b.a.s.t.a.r.d children, and is just going to be delivered of a fourth; or I resemble a man who has had a fine waistcoat lying long in the very bottom of a chest, which he is determined shall be put on at the hunter's ball; but woe's me, the lace is tarnished, and the moths have devoured it in a melancholy manner; these few similies may serve to shew, that this letter has little chance of being a good one; yet they don't make the affair certain. Prince Ferdinand beat the French at Minden; Sheridan, in his lectures, sometimes spoke sense; and John Home wrote one good play.[57] I have read Lord Kames's Elements,[58] and agree very heartily with the opinion of the Critical Reviewers; however, I could often have wished, that his Lords.h.i.+p had been less obscure, or that I had had more penetration; he praises the Mourning Bride excessively, which, nevertheless, I can not help thinking a very indifferent play; the plot wild and improbable, and the language infinitely too high and swelling.[59] It is curious to see the opinions of the Reviewers concerning you and me; they take you for a poor distressed gentleman, writing for bread, and me for a very impudent Irishman; whereas you are heir to a thousand a year, and I am one of the most bashful Scotchmen that ever appeared! I confess, indeed, my bashfulness does not appear in my works, for them I print in the most impudent manner; being exceeded in that respect by n.o.body but James Boswell, Esq.

Yours, &c., ANDREW ERSKINE.

[Footnote 56: A snow (Low-German, snau; High-German, schnau) is a small vessel with beaked or snout-like bows, according to Wedgewood. But more probably it takes its name from the triangular shape of its sails.--Schnauzegel, a trysail.--ED.]

[Footnote 57: "As we sat over our tea, Mr. Home's tragedy of Douglas was mentioned. I put Dr. Johnson in mind that once, in a coffee-house at Oxford, he called to old Mr. Sheridan, 'how came you, Sir, to give Home a gold medal for writing that foolish play?'" Boswell's "Tour to the Hebrides." Date of October 26, 1773.--ED.]

[Footnote 58: "The Elements of Criticism," by Henry Home, Lord Kames.

"Sir," said Johnson, "this book is a pretty essay and deserves to be held in some estimation though much of it is chimerical!" Boswell's "Life of Johnson." Date of May 16, 1763.--ED.]

[Footnote 59: "In this play there is more bustle than sentiment; the plot is busy and intricate, and the events take hold on the attention; but, except a very few pa.s.sages, we are rather amused with noise, and perplexed with stratagem, than entertained with any true delineation of natural characters."--Johnson's "Lives of the Poets."--ED.]

LETTER x.x.xIX.

Kames, October 19, 1762.

Dear ERSKINE,--In my own name, and in the name of Lord Kames, I desire to see you here immediately. I have been reading the "Elements of Criticism." You and the Reviewers have p.r.o.nounced enough of serious panegyric on that book. In my opinion, it has the good properties of all the four elements. It has the solidity of earth, the pureness of air, the glow of fire, and the clearness of water. The language is excellent, and sometimes rises to so n.o.ble a pitch, that I exclaim, in imitation of Zanga in the Revenge,[60]

"I like this roaring of the Elements."

[Footnote 60: "The Revenge," a tragedy, by Edward Young, author of "Night Thoughts."--ED.]

If this does not bring you, nothing will; and so, Sir, I continue,

Yours as usual,

JAMES BOSWELL.

LETTER XL.

Kelly, October 28, 1762.

Dear BOSWELL,--How shall I begin? what species of apology shall I make?

the truth is, I really could not write, my spirits have been depressed so unaccountably. I have had whole mountains of lead pressing me down: you would have thought that five Dutchmen had been riding on my back, ever since I saw you; or that I had been covered with ten thousand folios of controversial divinity; you would have imagined that I was crammed in the most dense part of a plumb-pudding, or steeped in a hogshead of thick English Port. Heavens! is it possible, that a man of some fame for joking, possessed of no unlaughable talent in punning, and endued with no contemptible degree of liveliness in letter-writing, should all of a sudden have become more impenetrably stupid than a Hottentot legislator, or a moderator of the general a.s.sembly of the Kirk of Scotland. By that smile which enlivens your black countenance, like a farthing candle in a dark cellar, I perceive I am pardoned; indeed I expected no less; for, I believe, if a sword was to run you through the body, or a rope was to hang you, you would forget and forgive: you are at Kames just now, very happy, I suppose; your letter seems to come from a man in excellent spirits; I am very unequal at present to the task of writing an answer to it, but I was resolved to delay no longer, lest you should think I neglected you wilfully; a thought, I'm sure, you never shall have occasion to entertain of me, though the mist of dulness should for ever obscure and envelope my fancy and imagination. I cannot think of coming to Kames, yet I am sufficiently thankful for the invitation; my lowness would have a very bad effect in a cheerful society; it would be like a dead march in the midst of a hornpipe, or a mournful elegy in a collection of epigrams.

Farewell. Yours, &c.,

ANDREW ERSKINE.

LETTER XLI.

Parliament-Close, Nov. 10, 1762.

Dear ERSKINE,--All I have now to say, is to inform you, that I shall set out for London on Monday next, and to beg that you may not leave Edinburgh before that time.

My letters have often been carried to you over rising mountains and rolling seas. This pursues a simpler track, and under the tuition of a cadie,[61] is transmitted from the Parliament-Close to the Canongate.

Thus it is with human affairs; all is fluctuating, all is changing.

Believe me,

Yours, &c.

JAMES BOSWELL.

[Footnote 61: "There is at Edinburgh a society or corporation of errand-boys, called 'cawdies,' who ply in the streets at night with paper lanthorns, and are very serviceable in carrying messages."--"Humphry Clinker," vol. ii., p. 240.--ED.]

LETTER XLII.

London, Nov. 20, 1762.

Dear ERSKINE,--What sort of a letter shall I now write to you? Shall I cram it from top to bottom with tables of compound interest? with anecdotes of Queen Anne's wars? with excerpts from Robertson's history?

or with long stories translated from Olaus Wormius?[62]

[Footnote 62: A distinguished Danish historian and antiquary, "Known in the history of anatomy by the bones of the skull named after him _ossa Wormiana_."--ED.]

To pa.s.s four-and-twenty hours agreeably was still my favourite plan. I think at present that the mere contemplation of this amazing bustle of existence, is enough to make my four-and-twenty go merrily round. I went last night to Covent-Garden; and saw Woodward play Captain Bobadil;[63]

he is a very lively performer; but a little extravagant: I was too late for getting into Drury-Lane, where Garrick played King Lear. That inimitable actor is in as full glory as ever; like genuine wine, he improves by age, and possesses the steady and continued admiration even of the inconstant English.[64]