Boswell's Correspondence with the Honourable Andrew Erskine, and His Journal of a Tour to Corsica Part 7

I was really shocked at the lethargy of our correspondence. Let it now be renovated with increase of spirit, so that I may not only subscribe myself your sincere friend, but your witty companion,

JAMES BOSWELL.

LETTER XXVI.

New-Tarbat, May 1, 1762.

Well then, my friend, you leave the bar, Resolv'd on drums, on dress, and war, While fancy paints in liveliest hues, Swords, sashes, shoulder-knots, reviews, You quit the study of the laws, And show a blade in Britain's cause, Of length to throw into a trance, The frighten'd kings of Spain and France!

A hat of fiercest c.o.c.k is sought, And your c.o.c.kade's already bought, While on your coat there beams a lace, That might a captain-general grace!

For me, who never show admir'd, Or very long ago was tir'd, I can with face unmov'd behold, A scarlet suit with glittering gold; And tho' a son of war and strife, Detest the listless languid life; Then coolly, Sir, I say repent, And in derision hold a tent; Leave not the sweet poetic band, To scold recruits, and pore on Bland,[42]

Our military books won't charm ye, Not even th' enchanting list o' th' army.

Trust me, 'twill be a foolish sight, To see you facing to the right; And then, of all your sense bereft, Returning back unto the left; Alas! what transport can you feel, In turning round on either heel?

Much sooner would I choose indeed, To see you standing on your head; Or with your breeches off to rub Foul clothes, and dance within a tub.

[Footnote 42: Humphrey Bland, author of "Military Discipline," (1727).

He served under the Duke of Marlborough. Was present also at the battles of Dettingen and Fontenoy. Became colonel of the Second Dragoon Guards.--ED.]

Besides, my dear Boswell, we find in all history ancient and modern, lawyers are very apt to run away. Demosthenes the Greek, writer to the signet, who managed the great suit against Philip of Macedon, fairly scoured off, I think, at the battle of Cheronea; and Cicero, the Roman advocate is universally accused of cowardice. I am not indeed ignorant that some of your ancestors behaved well at Flodden;[43] but as they lost the day, I think the omen but bad, and as they were killed, I think that makes the omen still worse; however, perhaps you don't think so, and I allow that argument to be very convincing, and rather more conclusive, than if you had said, "I don't know that."

[Footnote 43: "Thomas Boswell obtained from James IV., as a signal mark of royal favour, the estate of Auchinleck. He was slain at Flodden."--"Memoir of James Boswell," by Rev. C. Rogers, p. 3.--ED.]

You complain much of the country, and you a.s.sign various reasons for disliking it; among others, you imagine the atmosphere too moist and heavy; I agree with you in that opinion, all the black clouds in the sky are continually pressing upon you, for as the proverb says, Like draws to like. Believe me, I have sometimes taken you at a distance, for the pillar of smoke which used to accompany the Israelites out of Egypt; it would be impossible to tell how many things I have taken you for at different times; sometimes I have taken you for the witches' cauldron in Macbeth; this resemblance was in some degree warranted by your figure and shape; sometimes for an enormous ink-bottle; sometimes for a funeral procession; now and then for a chimney sweeper, and not unfrequently for a black-pudding. For my part, Boswell, I must confess I am fond of the country to a degree; things there are not so artificially disguised as in towns, real sentiments are discovered, and the pa.s.sions play naturally and without restraint. As for example, it was only in the country I could have found out Lady J----'s particular attachment to the tune of _Appie Mac-Nab_; in the town, no doubt, she would have pretended a great liking for Voi Amante; in the town, I never would have seen Lady B---- go out armed for fear of the Turkey-c.o.c.k, which is her daily practice here, and leaves room for numberless reflections: she cannot eat Turkeys when roasted or boiled; and she dreads them when alive so much, that she displays every forenoon a cudgel to them, fitted by its size to strike terror into a bull, or a b.u.t.ting cow. What can her keeping of Turkeys be owing to? a.s.suredly to vanity, which is of such an insinuating nature, that we are apt very often to meet it where we least expect it; I have seen it in an old shoe, in a dirty s.h.i.+rt, in a long nose, a crooked leg, and a red face. So much it seemed good for me to say upon the subject of vanity, supporting by the most irrefragable arguments, the doctrine of Solomon.

We had a visit from Mr. C---- of S---- here this morning; he came in a chaise drawn by four bay horses; I am certain of the number, you may draw what inference you please from this intelligence, I give you only a simple narration of the fact. I am surprised you say nothing of my proposal of your coming here, and still more that you say nothing of your Cub. Why don't you send me a copy? We were all so much entertained with your letter to Lady B----, that I was really seized with a qualm of envy; we regard it as one of those efforts of genius, which are only produced by a fine flow of spirits, a beautiful day, and a good pen.

I pray you, Boswell, note well this sheet of paper, its size is magnificent: If Lady B---- was possessed of such an extent of plain ground, she would undoubtedly throw it into a lawn, and plant it with clumps of trees, she would vary it with fish-ponds, and render it rural with flocks; here, where I am writing, might a cow feed; here might be an arbour; here, perhaps, might you recline at full length; by the edge of this stream might the Captain walk, and in this corner, might Lady B---- give orders to her shepherds. I am drawn in the most irresistible manner to conclude, by the external impulse of the cloth's being laid, and by the internal impulse of being hungry. Believe me, Boswell, to be in the most unconscionable manner, your affectionate friend,

ANDREW ERSKINE.

P.S.--I send you franks, which return filled with the utmost wit and humour.

LETTER XXVII.

Auchinleck, May 4, 1762.

For military operation[44]

I have a wondrous inclination; Ev'n when a boy, with cheerful glee, The red-coats march I used to see; With joy beheld the corporals drill, The men upon the Castle-hill; And at the sound of drum and fife, Felt an unusual flow of life.

Besides, my honest friend, you know I am a little of a beau.

I'm sure, my friend need not be told, That Boswell's hat was edg'd with gold; And that a s.h.i.+ning bit of lace, My brownish-colour'd suit did grace; And that mankind my hair might see, Powder'd at least two days in three.

My pinchbeck buckles are admir'd By all who are with taste inspir'd.

Trophies of Gallic pride appear, The crown to every Frenchman dear, And the enchanting fleur de lis, The flower of flowers you must agree; While for variety's sweet sake, And witty Charles's tale to wake, The curious artist interweaves A twisted bunch of oaken leaves.

Tell me, dear Erskine, should not I My favourite path of fortune try?

Our life, my friend, is very short, A little while is all we've for't; And he is blest who can beguile, With what he likes, that little while.

[Footnote 44: I have omitted the first eighty lines of this poem.--ED.]

My fondness for the guards must appear very strange to you, who have a rooted antipathy at the glare of scarlet. But I must inform you, that there is a city called London, for which I have as violent an affection as the most romantic lover ever had for his mistress. There a man may indeed soap his own beard, and enjoy whatever is to be had in this transitory state of things. Every agreeable whim may be freely indulged without censure. I hope, however, you will not impute my living in England, to the same cause for which Hamlet was advised to go there; because the people were all as mad as himself.

I long much for another of our long conversations on a fine forenoon, after breakfast, while the sun sheds light and gladness around us.

Believe me,

Yours sincerely,

JAMES BOSWELL.

LETTER XXVIII.

Auchinleck, May 8, 1762.

Dear ERSKINE,--I should have wondered very much, had I been told of Lady J----'s particular attachment to the tune of _Appie Mac-nab_, two months ago: but I must inform you, that a few days before I left Edinburgh, having occasion to look into the advocates' library, I there chanced to turn up an old Roman song-book, and, to my great surprise, met with the individual air of _Appie Mac-nab_, which I discovered to be part of an original Patrician cantata on the daughter of the famous Appius, set for the _Tibiae sinistrae_. In a ma.n.u.script marginal note, it is said to have been composed by Tigellius the famous musician, whose death and character Horace takes occasion to entertain and instruct us with, in the second satire of his first Book. You see, therefore, that Lady J----'s taste for Italian music, cannot be called in question; and indeed, I think her liking _Appie Mac-nab_, is a very strong proof of it, as she certainly could not know its original. The Roman song-book, a very great curiosity, was brought from Rome some hundred years ago, by father Macdonald, an old popish priest, who left it as a legacy to the Duke of Gordon. It is probable, that some musician in the North of Scotland, has transcribed the Appian cantata from it, and giving its princ.i.p.al air a Scottish turn, and adapting proper words to it, has produced the vulgar ballad of _Appie Mac-nab_.

Lady B----'s terror for the Turkey-c.o.c.k, diverts me extremely. Did they but come to an engagement, how n.o.ble must it be! The idea makes a strong impression on my fancy. I shall certainly write something astonis.h.i.+ng upon it.

This charming weather has reconciled me to the country. It enlivens me exceedingly. I am cheerful and happy. I have been wandering by myself, all this forenoon, through the sweetest place in the world. The suns.h.i.+ne is mild, the breeze is gentle, my mind is peaceful. I am indulging the most agreeable reveries imaginable. I am thinking of the brilliant scenes of happiness, which I shall enjoy as an officer of the guards.

How I shall be acquainted with all the grandeur of a court, and all the elegance of dress and diversions; become a favourite of ministers of state, and the adoration of ladies of quality, beauty, and fortune! How many parties of pleasure shall I have in town! How many fine jaunts to the n.o.ble seats of dukes, lords, and members of parliament in the country! I am thinking of the perfect knowledge which I shall acquire of men and manners, of the intimacies which I shall have the honour to form with the learned and ingenious in every science, and of the many amusing literary anecdotes which I shall pick up. I am thinking of making the tour of Europe, and feasting on the delicious prospects of Italy and France; of feeling all the transports of a bard at Rome, and writing n.o.ble poems on the banks of the Tiber. I am thinking of the distinguished honours which I shall receive at every foreign court, and of what infinite service I shall be to all my countrymen upon their travels. I am thinking of returning to England, of getting into the house of commons, of speaking still better than Mr. Pitt, and of being made princ.i.p.al secretary of state. I am thinking of having a regiment of guards, and of making a glorious stand against an invasion by the Spaniards. I am thinking how I shall marry a lady of the highest distinction, with a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds. I am thinking of my flouris.h.i.+ng family of children; how my sons shall be men of sense and spirit, and my daughters women of beauty, and every amiable perfection. I am thinking of the prodigious respect which I shall receive, of the splendid books which will be dedicated to me, and the statues which will be erected to my immortal honour.

I am thinking that my mind is too delicate, and my feelings too fine for the rough bustle of life; I am therefore thinking that I shall steal silently and unperceived through the world; that I shall pa.s.s the winter in London, much in the same way that the Spectator describes himself to have done; and in summer, shall live sometimes here at home; sometimes in such a pleasing retirement as Mrs. Row beautifully paints in her letters moral and entertaining.[45] I like that book much. I read it when I was very young, and I am persuaded, that it contributed to improve my tender imagination. I am thinking that I shall feel my frame too delicate for the British Climate. I am thinking that I shall go and live in one of the most pleasant provincial towns in the South of France, where I shall be blest with constant felicity. This is a scheme to which I could give vast praise, were I near the beginning of my letter; but as that is very far from being the case, I must reserve it for a future epistle.

[Footnote 45: "Letters, Moral and Entertaining, in Prose and Verse," by Elizabeth Rowe.--ED.]

I am glad to find you are so anxious to hear about the Cub at Newmarket, Love me, love my Cub. However, I can tell you nothing about him. Dodsley has not yet sent me a copy.

Derrick,[46] a London author, whom you have heard me mention, has sent me his versifications of the battle of Lora, and some of the Erse fragments. If you want to see them, let me have some franks.

[Footnote 46: "Pray, Sir," said Mr. Morgann to Johnson, "whether do you reckon Derrick or Smart the best poet?" Johnson at once felt himself roused; and answered, "Sir, there is no settling the point of precedency between a louse and a flea." Boswell's "Life of Johnson." Date of March 30th, 1783.--ED.]

I shall be at Dumfries soon, where I hope to see my friend Johnston. We will talk much of old Scotch history, and the memory of former years will warm our hearts. We will also talk of Captain Andrew, with whom we have pa.s.sed many a pleasant hour. Johnston is a very worthy fellow: I may safely say so; for I have lived in intimacy with him more years than the Egyptian famine lasted.

And now, O most renowned of Captains! having fairly written myself out of pen, ink, and paper, I conclude with my usual epithet, of

Your affectionate friend,

JAMES BOSWELL.

LETTER XXIX.

New-Tarbat, May 13, 1762.