represented a brawny porter almost sinking to the ground
under a huge load of his works. I am too lazy just now to copy out an
Ode to Indolence, which I have lately written; besides, it's fitting I
reserve something for you to peruse when we meet, for upon these
occasions an exchange of Poems ought to be as regular as an exchange of
prisoners between two nations at war. Believe me, dear Boswell, to be
yours sincerely,

ANDREW ERSKINE.

[Footnote 34: "Would you believe, what I know is fact, that Dr. Hill
earned fifteen guineas a week by working for wholesale dealers? He was
at once employed on six voluminous works of Botany, Husbandry, &c.,
published weekly."--Horace Walpole, date of Jan. 3, 1761.--ED.]

P.S.--Pray write me before I set out for Glasgow.--The Ode to Tragedy,
by a gentleman of Scotland, good now! wonderful!

* * * * *

LETTER XII.

Edinburgh, Saturday, Dec. 14, 1761.

Dear ERSKINE,--If my scheme takes, you must alter it. Thursday the 24th
must be the day of our meeting, as I am obliged to return hither on
Saturday the 2nd of January. This is really a curious way of employing
you; however, you will gain something by it; you will acquire a
particular exactness in knowing the days of the month, a science too
much neglected in these degenerate days, but a science which was
cultivated with a glorious ardour in Greece and Rome, and was no doubt
the cause of their flourishing so much in every respect.

I am yours sincerely,

JAMES BOSWELL.

* * * * *

LETTER XIII.

Edinburgh, Dec. 17, 1761.

Dear ERSKINE,--Had you but hinted a method of conveyance sooner than by
the first post, sooner should the Ode to Tragedy have saluted your
longing eyes.

At length it comes! it comes! Hark! with what lofty music do the spheres
proclaim its triumphal entry into the majestic edifice at Tarbat! Behold
the family gathered around it in a sort of quadrangular figure! Heavens!
what a picture of curiosity! what a group of eager expectants! They show
their teeth, they rub their hands, they kick the floor! But who is this
the fire of whose look flames infinitely beyond the rest? It is Captain
Andrew! It is! it is! ye Gods! he seizes! he opens! he reads! Let us
leave him. I can no more. It would stretch the strings too far to
proceed. You must know I purposely neglected to send the Ode myself, and
likewise prevented Donaldson from sending it immediately wh