ow, which you'll observe is a very pretty rhyme, I
sit down on a chair which has really a very bad bottom, being made of
wood, and answer your epistle which I received this moment; it is dated
on Saturday the 14th, which was really the 12th, according to the
computation of the best chronologists: this is a blunder which Sir Isaac
Newton would never have excused; but I a man no less great, forgive it
from my soul; and I here declare, that I will never upbraid you with it
in any company or conversation, even though that conversation should
turn upon the quickest and most pleasant method of swallowing oysters,
when you know I might very naturally introduce it.

I confess it is singularly silly in me to turn the page in this manner,
and that I should have followed your example, or rather ensample, as
some great judges of style usually write it. I see by the newspapers,
that Fingal is to be published at Edinburgh in a few days, pray bring it
with you.

I will undoubtedly meet you at Glasgow on the 24th day of the month,
being exactly that day which precedes Christmas, as was ingeniously
observed by Mr. Sheridan in his fourth Lecture;[35] and I hear he is
going to publish a whole volume of discoveries all as notable as this,
which I imagine will exceed his lectures greatly.

[Footnote 35: "Course of Lectures on Elocution," by Thomas Sheridan,
M.A. London, 1762.--ED.]

Pray now be faithful to this appointment, and so I commit this letter to
the guidance of Providence, hoping that it will not miscarry, or fail of
being duly delivered.

Believe me yours sincerely,

ANDREW ERSKINE.

* * * * *

LETTER XV.

New-Tarbat, Jan. 10, 1762.

Dear BOSWELL,--The storms of night descended, the winds rolled along the
clouds with all their ghosts, around the rock the dark waves burst, and
shewed their flaming bosoms, loud rushed the blast through the leafless
oaks, and the voice of the spirit of the mountains was heard in our
halls; it was Saturday, when lo! at once the postman came, mighty was
his striding in the kitchen, and strong was his voice for ale. In
short, I have as yet received no letter from you, and great is my wonder
and astonishment, even Donaldson has not sent me my Critical Review;
would to God he had one rap from Fingal's sword of Luno.

I feel myself at this present moment capable of writing a letter which
would delight you, but I am determined not to do it, and this is the
sever