ne. 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