well imprinted ever to be
effaced; I may turn Turk or Hottentot, I may be hanged for stealing a
bag to adorn my hair, I may ravish all sorts of virgins, young and old,
I may court the fattest Wapping landlady, but these things I can never
forget; I may be sick and in prison, I may be deaf, dumb, and may lose
my memory, but these things I can never forget.

And now, Boswell, I am to acquaint you, that your proposal is received
with the utmost joy and festivity, and the scheme, if I live till
to-morrow fortnight, will be put in execution. The New-Tarbat chaise
will arrive at Glasgow on Monday evening the 28th of December, drove by
William. Captain Andrew's slim personage will slip out, he will enquire
for James Boswell, Esq.; he will be shewn into the room where he is
sitting before a large fire, the evening being cold, raptures and poetry
will ensue, and every man will soap his own beard; every other article
of the proposals will be executed as faithfully as this; but to speak
very seriously, you must be true to your appointment, and come with the
utmost regularity upon the Monday; think of my emotions at Graeme's, if
you should not come; view my melancholy posture; hark! I rave like Lady
Wishfort,[32] no Boswell yet, Boswell's a lost thing. I must receive a
letter from you before I set out, telling me whether you keep true to
your resolution, and pray send me the Ode to Tragedy: I beg you'll bring
me out in your pocket my Critical Review, which you may desire Donaldson
to give you; but above all, employ Donaldson to get me a copy of
Fingal,[33] which tell him I'll pay him for; I long to see it.

[Footnote 32: In "The Way of the World," by Congreve.--ED.]

[Footnote 33: The first volume of Macpherson's "Fingal" was published
this winter.--ED.]

There are some things lately published in London, which I would be glad
to have, particularly a Spousal Hymn on the marriage of the King and
Queen, and an Elegy on viewing a ruined Pile of Buildings; see what you
can do for me; I know you will not take it ill to be busied a little for
that greatest of all Poets Captain Andrew.

The sluice of happiness you have let in upon me, has quite overflowed
the shallows of my understanding; at this moment I am determined to
write more and print more than any man in the kingdom, except the great
Dr. Hill, who writes a Folio every month, a Quarto every fortnight, an
Octavo every week, and a Duodecimo every day.[34] Hogarth has
humourously