N.B. As every person knows the penalty of harbouring a slave, any person that does will be prosecute in terms of the act of parliament.
EDINBURGH EVENING COURANT, 8 JUNE 1768
FOR MONTEGO BAY, LUCEA, AND SAVANNA-LA-MAR, JAMAICA
The ship CHRISTIANA, ROBERT BAIN Master, now lying at Greenock, will be ready to take on board goods by the 20th curt., and clear to sail by the 20th January.
For freight or passage, apply to Sommervel, Gordon and Co., merchants in Glasgow, or the Master in Greenock.
The C—is a fine large vessel, armed with ten carriage guns, and has excellent accommodation for passengers.
CALEDONIAN MERCURY, 17 JANUARY 1788
Edinburgh, 17 August 1773
Mr John Maclaurin strode towards the top of the Grassmarket, on his way to what promised to be an interesting dinner at James’s Court. He was a tall man, a little above six feet, who seemed even taller because of his gaunt thinness, gangly limbs and ungraceful stride. A long, disapproving nose was further exaggerated by a receding chin, and yet his gloomy features were misleading, for he was quick-witted, and generally excellent company. A languid way of speaking disguised a powerful intellect. He was capable of fierce opinions, especially where either Scotland or natural justice were under fire, but they were often immediately succeeded by gales of laughter, as if his anger were only a front put up to see which of his friends he could make jump the highest.
Ten minutes earlier he had climbed out of his carriage at the West Port and sent it back home, to Dreghorn Castle. There, in the lee of the Pentland Hills to the south-west of the city, he had left his wife Esther for the afternoon – somewhat against both their wills, as she was within days of producing their eighth child in ten years, and they were both nervous. So far they had been moderately unlucky: three of the children had not survived, two of those that had were sickly. Mr Maclaurin felt perhaps he should be at home. Mrs Maclaurin did too, but had pushed him out, since an opportunity like this would probably never come again. In any case his anxiety would make hers worse. By the time, in the early evening, he walked down the High Street to the Tron, where he could hire a hackney-coach to take him home, Esther would have gone to bed.
It was approaching three o’clock, a fashionable whole hour later than the usual time for dinner, but then his hosts prided themselves on keeping abreast of fashion. He was to dine at the home of James and Margaret Boswell, and meet, for the first time, the great Dr Samuel Johnson. Maclaurin was of two minds about this encounter. On the one hand, he was intrigued by the Englishman’s literary brilliance and his reputation for erudite conversation. On the other, he was scunnered at hearing endlessly of these virtues from Bozzy, who, though a close friend – they were both advocates, and often jousted before the Bench – did not know when to shut up about his fat favourite. Boswell squirmed with evident delight every time he recounted another of Johnson’s barbs against the Scotch. Maclaurin was not sure how he himself would react if he were baited, but he hoped it would be with dignity and spirit.
Boswell, of course, having persuaded Johnson to come not only as far north as Edinburgh but to go with him even unto the wildest retreats of the Western Isles, was in his element: showing off the doctor to as many of his acquaintances as he could fit into half a week of hastily arranged dinners; and in return attempting to impress Johnson with the length and breadth of Scottish genius. At thirty-eight, Maclaurin was six years older than Bozzy, and sometimes found his friend’s irrepressibility wearing. Today, he supposed, he had been invited as an example of a kind of middling, middle-aged Scotch lawyerish intelligence. Well, Johnson would see what he would see …
The afternoon was windless and warm, but against it, owing to a habitual fear of catching cold, Maclaurin was defended by an unseasonably heavy coat. Possibly this obsession with draughts, sneezes and dry stockings was related to the loss of three children: it might also have derived from the history of his father, Colin Maclaurin. A gifted mathematician, he had become professor of that subject at Aberdeen at the age of nineteen, moving to the chair at Edinburgh eight years later. He had exhausted himself organising the city defences against the Jacobite army in 1745, escaped to York when his efforts came to nothing, returned in poor health the following year, caught a chill and expired. John Maclaurin was ten years away from the age his father had been when he died, and was determined, for the sake of whichever of his own children grew to adulthood, to get well beyond it.
The High Street was reached from the Grassmarket via the West Bow, a narrow twisted ascent less like a thoroughfare than a mountain pass. It rose so steeply that even fit walkers found it taxing on the legs. Half medieval and half derelict, every cranny and corner occupied as a place of residence or business or both simultaneously, dotted with mysterious doors and curious airy passageways leading apparently to nowhere, disfigured by unnatural protuberances and impossibly angled outshots, liberally decorated with sign boards, shop names and drying-poles festooned with all manner of clothing and bedding, the West Bow was as densely crowded at its upper storeys as it was at ground level. Maclaurin was always thrilled by its packed riot of colour and noise, and by the fact that this confusion of a street was a kind of trial, a pilgrim’s progress, out of which one emerged on to the wider, airier and brighter Lawnmarket and the great cascade of the High Street pouring down from Castlehill to Holyrood. Going up the West Bow, he felt as though he were in a fable.
It had at one time been home to one of Maclaurin’s friends, Andrew Crosbie, one of the most successful advocates in Edinburgh. Until a few years before, Crosbie had inhabited a dingy flat among the silversmiths and coppersmiths of the Bow, from which it was a mere step to the howffs of the Grassmarket, where he had habitually drunk himself into oblivion. But – sign of the times – the inelegant advocate had flitted and built himself an elegant house in the new Edinburgh, at St Andrew Square, a minute’s walk from the residence of Mr David Hume, and now Crosbie drank at home more than abroad. Would drink himself to an early grave, Maclaurin believed, which would be a pity, for despite his lack of social graces Crosbie had a brilliant and humane mind which he used to great effect in the courts. The two men got on very well. Although Crosbie thought Maclaurin would have been a long-faced Presbyterian girner in an earlier age, and Maclaurin had no doubt that Crosbie would have been a gouty old Restoration soak, they shared a passion for fair play which overcame such prejudices.
The same friendly sparring marked Maclaurin’s relationship with Bozzy. Boswell had once told him why he was so drawn to the rituals of high Anglicanism, and so repelled by Presbyterianism: the English service filled him with joy and made him think of heaven, while sitting in a kirk filled him with gloom and made him think of hell. ‘And so it should,’ Maclaurin had told him unhelpfully, even though he himself had outgrown all but the semblance of religious adherence.
On the High Street the bustle was scarcely diminished, and yet the town was quieter than usual. The Court of Session had just risen for the summer recess, and lawyers and clients alike were fleeing hot, smelly Edinburgh for more salubrious rural retreats. The Maclaurins had a town house in Brown Square, near Greyfriars, but it had been Esther’s wish to have her confinement amid the peace, trees and fresh breezes of Dreghorn, and Maclaurin, though he loved Auld Reikie, equally loved to get away from it.
James’s Court was across the Lawnmarket on the north side, a towering tenement of eight storeys, with sweeping views towards Fife. The Boswells had one of the finest sets of apartments within this building, which at fifty years old was a mere juvenile in the medieval part of town. Their house was entered at ground level from the street and – almost unheard of – had its own second floor connected by an internal staircase.
A servant opened the door to Maclaurin, but Boswell himself charged out to greet him like a toy on a spring.
‘The Sage is here, he is here!’ He clasped his friend by the hand, and seemed almost, Maclaurin feared, about to kiss him. ‘How very good to see yo
u, John.’
‘Ye saw me only on Friday,’ said Maclaurin dryly. ‘I had nae idea ye missed me sae muckle.’ He was gratified to see Boswell wince at his Scotticisms – precisely the effect he had anticipated – and wondered about dropping a few more into the course of the afternoon.
Boswell read his mind. ‘Now, now, don’t embarrass me, John,’ he said, which only made Maclaurin determined to try.
He was handed on to Mrs Boswell, who was not much calmer than her husband. ‘Mr Johnson is not altogether the easiest guest,’ she confided. ‘I gave him my own bedroom, to make him feel more comfortable, but he will not stay in it, but roams around the house at all hours, and frightens the maid. I procure him the best food I can, and he eats it all but without seeming to taste it. And what a man for tea! We must make several gallons a day. Not that I should object, and I do wish James, since he is so influenced by him, might follow his example and drink more of it and less wine. But then, he will turn the candles upside down when they don’t burn bright, and the wax drips all over the carpet … Still, I must not complain. He is a very great man, which excuses everything, does it not? How is Mrs Maclaurin?’ Looking pale and tired (she had a five-month-old child and they were trying for another – Maclaurin, being aware of Boswell’s sexual appetite, imagined this involved some fairly strenuous conjugating), she brought him into the drawing room.
It was quite spacious, almost palatial by old Edinburgh standards, though nothing to the grand new accommodations going up across the Nor’ Loch. Maclaurin knew the four men already present: old Sir Alexander Dick of Prestonfield, scientist, physician and expert on the healthful properties of that strange Russian beast the rhubarb; James Gregory, a brilliant young doctor who might have had Sir Alexander as his patron had his own father not been Professor of Medicine at the University; Dr John Boswell, James’s amiable but rather odd uncle; and Sir David Dalrymple, Lord Hailes, author and arbiter of polite taste, and a judge before whom the two advocates pled on a regular basis.
Hailes was only forty-seven but had the bearing of a man ten years older, possibly because he had been a judge nearly that long. Almost uniquely among the Scottish gentry at this period, he had been educated at Eton, a fact which partly accounted for the thin, reedy timbre of his voice, as though all his vowels had been strained through a sieve. Other judges, including Boswell’s father Lord Auchinleck, prided themselves on the retention of both Scots pronunciation and vocabulary, but Scotticisms were entirely absent from Hailes’s speech. Boswell envied and admired his sense of good taste, his anglicised bearing, his huge library, and the fact that he was one of the few ‘North British’ intellectuals whose work Johnson admired.
These four gentlemen were seated or standing in a semi-circle, their backs obscuring from Maclaurin’s view the object of their attention, who at that moment emitted a long, low growl in response to something one of them had said. Maclaurin turned to Boswell, who had bounced in behind him. ‘Is he out of humour?’
‘No, no, he is in excellent form,’ said Boswell. ‘That is his laugh. I’ll introduce you.’
Samuel Johnson was sixty-four, and wore his years as if he had had all of them since birth. Crumpled, ungainly-looking, in dowdy, brown and far from spotless clothes, he was a kind of wide, heavy version of Maclaurin himself. He glowered with inquisitive but short-sighted eyes from under a large brow, on top of which was settled a bushy, greyish wig, half rose to take Maclaurin’s hand, then subsided again with a series of grunts. But there was a smile playing on his lips, betraying his delight at being the principal, the only real attraction in the room – Margaret Boswell may have been young and pretty, but she was not significant. Only the Boswells’ black cat, asleep on a window-seat, seemed unimpressed by him.
‘We have heard much of your proposed expedition, sir,’ Maclaurin said, deciding for the moment to speak English, as a courtesy to Johnson. ‘It is quite an undertaking.’
‘What do you say?’ Johnson barked. ‘You will have to speak up. I am hard of hearing.’
‘Your expedition tae the Highlands,’ Maclaurin barked back, changing his mind. ‘Div ye no fear ye may be pittin ower muckle on yoursel?’
Johnson waggled a finger in his right ear and made a face, but he had understood perfectly well. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I have absolute confidence in Mr Boswell. My load shall be as nothing to his, since he will also have me to bear.’
‘I hope he hasna misled ye that the roads are straight and the inns luxurious.’
‘It would be a very green man who swallowed such a tale,’ said Johnson, ‘if Edinburgh is typical. When I got off the coach here on Saturday, I was thirsty and had some lemonade at the inn while word was sent to Mr Boswell that I had arrived. I asked for the lemonade to be sweetened, whereupon the waiter picked up a lump of sugar with his greasy fingers and dropped it in the glass. Not a good introduction. I threw the contents out of the window.’
‘You learn Edinburgh habits quickly enough, then,’ said Maclaurin. ‘That is what we do with the disagreeable contents of any container.’
‘So I have smelt,’ said Johnson gruffly. ‘And the waiter was lucky not to follow, since he was certainly disagreeable.’
‘You see, John,’ said Boswell nervously, ‘if you disparage your own country, it is only an encouragement to him.’
‘Frae whit ye hae tellt me, James, praising it has the same effect.’
Johnson growled for several seconds, apparently very happy with Maclaurin’s sparring.
‘When do you set out?’ Maclaurin asked.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ Boswell said. ‘We are bound first for St Andrews, then up the coast to Aberdeen, across to Inverness, and thence to Skye and the other islands.’
‘I envy you, sir,’ said Maclaurin to Johnson. ‘There are few enough Scots that have seen a tenth of what you are about to see. It will be a great adventure.’
They were summoned for dinner shortly after this, and moved through to the dining room. Lord Hailes was put opposite Johnson, and the pair of them dominated the conversation as Boswell had hoped they would. Literature, language, art, manners – these were the subjects served up along with ashets loaded with grouse, mutton and beef; there were mountains of vegetables and several bottles of claret, although in deference to Johnson’s abstinence the others restrained themselves more than they would usually have done. Boswell was in ecstasies and could barely stay seated during the meal. At the other end of the table, Sir Alexander and Gregory devoted themselves to Mrs Boswell, while James’s uncle played with his food and dumbly inclined his head in whichever direction the conversation sounded more entertaining.
Afterwards, Johnson and Maclaurin discussed poetry. Maclaurin was an occasional poet, and had brought two of his own productions for comment, epitaphs on his father the mathematician. Johnson was appreciative of one, which was in English, but more critical of the other, which was in Latin. He then reeled off a huge list of all the men Boswell had introduced to him since his arrival – ‘some,’ he muttered conspiratorially, ‘a good deal more interesting than others’. From breakfast to dinner a steady stream of blind poets, professors of this and that, doctors, lawyers and philosophers had come and gone. William Robertson, the Principal of the University, had not left his side all the previous day. Supper last night had been shared with two advocates, Mr Andrew Crosbie and Mr Robert Cullen.
‘And what did you make of Mr Crosbie?’ Maclaurin asked.
‘I liked him,’ said Johnson. ‘With his heaviness and ugliness and absence of tact, and his dislike of cant – well, there is something endearing in a man of that sort, do you not think?’ He looked at Maclaurin slyly.
‘And young Mr Cullen? I ken them so well, you see, it is interesting to hear the impression they make on one who meets them for the first time.’
‘Cullen?’ Johnson considered for a moment. ‘Very charming. A very polished and witty fellow.’
‘We call him “courteous Cullen”,’ said Maclaurin, ‘because he is al
l that you say he is. But at times he rides his wit very close to falling off it.’
‘I should not like to see that – he did not seem vain. Give me an example.’
‘Well, he is an excellent mimic, but mimicry is a dangerous sport. I was at a dinner not so long ago, where he entertained the company with a round of imitations of some of his advocate colleagues – myself included, by the way, done very sharp. The Lord President was there – Lord Arniston – and he was much amused, and invited Cullen to include some of the Bench in his performance. Well, Cullen couldna resist the temptation and did a splendid Monboddo discoursing on the speech patterns of the orang-outang, a Kames bitching this and bitching that, and a Gardenstone sharing snuff with his pet pig, causing us all to erupt. Says the President, “Why have ye left me oot? I canna allow it. Ye must dae me also.” Cullen caught himself at the edge of the precipice and stepped back, said he thought he should not do it, but his lordship insisted – virtually commanded it. So Cullen took him off, the spitting image, and of course we were all in fits again. All, that is, save one.’
Hailes, who had been half listening, chuckled into himself. ‘I really should not be hearing this,’ he said.
’Tis nae secret, my lord,’ said Maclaurin. ‘I’m surprised ye’ve no heard it afore.’
‘Oh, doubtless I was buried in my books,’ said Hailes. ‘I lead a retiring life out at Inveresk, sir,’ he said to Johnson.
‘What was the outcome?’ Johnson asked.
‘The President bore it with as good a grace as he could muster,’ said Maclaurin, ‘which wasna much. It must have been like looking in a very unflattering glass. When we had control of ourselves again he looked Cullen full in the face and said, “Very amusing, Mr Robert, very amusing, truly. Ye’re a clever lad, very clever. But just let me tell ye – that’s no way to rise at the Bar!”’
Johnson did not actually growl at this, but rocked back and forth, his shoulders shaking. ‘If I’d known, I would have asked for Mr Cullen’s Monboddo last night,’ he said eventually. ‘There was never so much nonsense spoken so learnedly as by Monboddo.’
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