We bade adieu to Lochbuy, and to our very kind conductor, Sir Allan Maclean, on the shore of Mull, and then got into the ferry-boat, the bottom of which was strewed with branches of trees or bushes, upon which we sat. We had a good day and a fine passage, and in the evening landed at Oban, where we found a tolerable inn. After having been so long confined at different times in islands, from which it was always uncertain when we could get away, it was comfortable to be now on the main-land, and to know that, if in health, we might get to any place in Scotland or England in a certain number of days.

Here we discovered, from the conjectures which were formed, that the people on the main-land were entirely ignorant of our motions; for in a Glasgow newspaper we found a paragraph, which, as it contains a just and well-turned compliment to my illustrious friend, I shall here insert:

"We are well assured that Dr. Johnson is confined by tempestuous weather to the Isle of Sky; it being unsafe to venture in a small boat upon such a stormy surge as is very common there at this time of the year. Such a philosopher, detained on an almost barren island, resembles a whale left upon the strand. The latter will be welcome to everybody, on account of its oil, his bone, &c., and the other will charm his companions, and the rude inhabitants, with his superior knowledge and wisdom, calm resignation, and unbounded benevolence."

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 23.

After a good night's rest, we breakfasted at our leisure. We talked of Goldsmith's "Traveller," of which Dr. Johnson spoke highly; and, while I was helping him on with his great-coat, he repeated from it the character of the British nation, which he did with such energy, that the tear started into his eye:

"Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state,

With daring aims irregularly great;

Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,

I see the lords of human kind pass by;

Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,

By forms unfashioned, fresh from nature's hand,

Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,

True to imagined right, above control,

While ev'n the peasant boasts these rights to scan,

And learns to venerate himself as man."

We could get but one bridle here, which, according to the maxim detur digniori, was appropriated to Dr. Johnson's sheltie. I and

a victim upon that occasion. The father of this young man was the identical Highland laird mentioned by Dr. Johnson as 'rough and haughty, and tenacious of his dignity.'" (Life of Dr. E. D. Clarke, vol. i. p. 293.) Since the date of Dr. Johnson's visit a handsome mansion-house has been erected near the old tower of Lochbuy.-ED,

S

Joseph rode with halters. We crossed in a ferrry-boat a pretty wide lake, and on the farther side of it, close by the shore, found a hut for our inn. We were much wet. I changed my clothes in part, and was at pains to get myself well dried. Dr. Johnson resolutely kept on all his clothes, wet as they were, letting them steam before the smoky turf fire. I thought him in the wrong; but his firmness was, perhaps, a species of heroism.

I remember but little of our conversation.

I mentioned Shenstone's saying of Pope, that he had the art of condensing sense more than any body. Dr. Johnson said, "It is not true, sir. There is more sense in a line of Cowley than in a page (or a sentence, or ten lines, I am not quite certain of the very phrase) of Pope." * He

* Most readers will, on this point, prefer the dictum of Shenstone to that of Johnson. In wit and fancy Cowley may contest the laurel with Pope; the ore was richer, though generally less refined. But in conveying truth and sense, maxims of life, and inoral or ethical precepts, where shall we find such precision, elegance, and concentration as in the "Moral Essays" and "Satires" of Pope? His select and brilliant expression of thought and sentiment is also a contrast to the careless, irregular dic

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maintained that Archibald, Duke of Argyle, was a narrow man. wondered at this; and observed, that his building so great a house at Inverary was not like a narrow man. Sir, (said he) when a narrow man has resolved to build a house, he builds it like another man. But Archibald, Duke of Argyle, was narrow in his ordinary expences, in his quotidian expences."

The distinction is very just. It is in the ordinary expences of life that a man's liberality or narrowness is to be discovered. I never heard the word quotidian in this sense, and I imagined it to be a word of Dr. Johnson's own fabrication; but I have since found it in Young's "Night Thoughts," (Night Fifth):

"Death's a destroyer of quotidian prey."

and in my friend's Dictionary, supported by the authorities of Charles I. and Dr. Donne.

It rained very hard as we journeyed on after dinner. The roar of torrents from the mountains, as we passed along in the dusk, and the other circumstances attending our ride in the evening, have been mentioned with so much animation by Dr. Johnson, that I shall not attempt to say anything on the subject.

*

tion of the elder poet. For Cowley's finest thoughts we should rather look to his prose than to his poetry; but Johnson's more deliberate and critical estimate of Cow ley will be found in his "Life" of that poet-one of the best of his biographies.-ED.

"The night came on while we had yet a great part of the way to go, though not so dark but that we could discern the cataracts, which poured down the hills on one side and fell into one general channel that ran with great violence on the other. The wind

was loud, the rain was heavy, and the whistling of the blast, the fall of the shower, the rush of the cataracts, and the roar of the torrent, made a nobler chorus of the rough music of Nature than it had ever been my chance to hear before." (Johnson's "Jour

We got at night to Inverary, where we found an excellent inn. Even here, Dr. Johnson would not change his wet clothes.

The prospect of good accommodation cheered us much. We supped well; and, after supper, Dr. Johnson, whom I had not seen taste any fermented liquor during all our travels, called for a gill of whiskey. "Come (said he), let me know what it is that makes a Scotchman happy!" He drank it all but a drop, which I begged leave to pour into my glass, that I might say we had drunk whiskey together. I proposed Mrs. Thrale should be our toast. He would not have her drunk in whiskey, but rather "some insular lady;" so we drank one of the ladies whom we had lately left.—He owned to-night, that he got as good a room and bed as at an English inn.

I had here the pleasure of finding a letter from home, which relieved me from the anxiety I had suffered, in consequence of not having received any account of my family for many weeks. I also found a letter from Mr. Garrick, which was a regale as agreeable as a pine-apple would be in a desert. He had favoured me with his correspondence for many years; and when Dr. Johnson and I were at Inverness, I had written to him as follows:

Inverness, Sunday, 29th August, 1773. MY DEAR SIR,-Here I am, and Mr. Samuel Johnson actually with me. We were a night at Fores, in coming to which, in the dusk of the evening, we passed over the bleak and blasted heath where Macbeth met the witches. Your old preceptor repeated, with much solemnity, the speech

"How far is't called to Fores? What are these,

So wither'd and so wild in their attire," &c.

This day we visited the ruins of Macbeth's castle at Inverness. I have had great romantic satisfaction in seeing Johnson upon the classical scenes of Shakspeare in Scotland; which I really looked upon as almost as improbable as that "Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane." Indeed, as I have always been accustomed to view him as a permanent London object, it would not be much more wonderful to me to see St. Paul's church moving along where we now are. As yet we have travelled in postchaises; but to-morrow we are to mount on horseback, aud ascend into the mountains by Fort Augustus, and so on to the ferry, where we are to cross to Sky. We shall see that island fully, and then visit some more of the Hebrides; after which we are to land in Argyleshire, proceed by Glasgow to Auchinleck, repose there a competent time, and then return to Edinburgh, from whence the Rambler will depart for old England again, as soon as he finds it convenient. Hitherto we have had a very

ney.")-This road from Oban to Inverary commands views of some of the noblest scenery in Scotland. Few who have travelled it will forget Loch Etive, Loch Awe and its wild Pass, Kilchurn Castle, or Ben Cruachan. Historical and poetic associations also consecrate the landscape. The chivalrous exploits of Bruce are indelibly connected with the district, and it has received fresh interest from the genius of Scott, Wordsworth, and Wilson. Scott's Highland widow, sitting at the foot of the oak-tree, by the River Awe, will be remembered as long as Bruce's knightly encoun ter with the followers of Lorn.-ED.

prosperous expedition. I flatter myself, servetur ad imum, qualis ab incepto processerit. [That it will continue as prosperous as it began.] He is in excellent spirits, and I have a rich journal of his conversation. Look back, Davy,* to Lichfield; run up through the time that has elapsed since you first knew Mr. Johnson, and enjoy with me his present extraordinary tour. I could not resist the impulse of writing to you from this place. The situation of the old castle corresponds exactly to Shakspeare's description. While we were there to-day it happened oddly that a raven perched upon one of the chimney-tops, and croaked. Then I in my turn repeated— "The raven himself is hoarse,

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan,

Under my battlements."

I wish you had been with us. Think what enthusiastic happiness I shall have to see Mr. Samuel Johnson walking among the romantic rocks and woods of my ancestors at Auchinleck! Write to me at Edinburgh. You owe me his verses on great George and tuneful Cibber, and the bad verses which led him to make his fine ones on Philips the musician. Keep your promise, and let me have them. I offer my very best compliments to Mrs. Garrick, and ever am

To David Garrick, Esq., London.

Your warm admirer and friend,

JAMES BOSWELL.

His answer was as follows:

Hampton, September 14, 1773.

DEAR SIR,-You stole away from London, and left us all in the lurch; for we expected you one night at the club, and knew nothing of your departure. Had I payed you what I owed you, for the book you bought for me, I should only have grieved for the loss of your company, and slept with a quiet conscience; but wounded as it is, it must remain so till I see you again, though I am sure our good friend Mr. Johnson will discharge the debt for me, if you will let him. Your account of your journey to Fores, the raven, old castle, &c. &c., made me half mad. Are you not rather too late in the year for fine weather, which is the life and soul of seeing places? I hope your pleasure will continue qualis ab incepto, &c.

Your friend+ threatens me much. I only wish that he would put his threats in execution, and, if he prints his play, I will forgive him. I remember he complaine to you that his bookseller called for the money for some copies of his -> which I subscribed for, and that I desired him to call again. The truth is, that my wife was

* I took the liberty of giving this familiar appellation to my celebrated friend, to bring in a more lively manner to his remembrance the period when he was Dr. Johnson's pupil.-BOSWELL.

+ I have spppressed my friend's name from an apprehension of wounding his sen. sibility; but I would not withhold from my readers a passage which shows Mr. Garrick's mode of writing as the manager of a theatre, and contains a pleasing trait of his domestic life. His judgment of dramatic pieces, so far as concerns their exhibition on the stage, must be allowed to have considerable weight. But from the effect which a perusal of the tragedy here condemned had upon myself, and from the opinions of some eminent critics, I venture to pronounce that it has much poetical merit; and its author has distinguished himself by several performances which show that the epithet "poetaster" was, in the present instance, much misapplied.-Boswell. [From a letter of Johnson's to Mrs. Thrale, the author alluded to appears to have been Mickle, translator of the "Lusiad," a man of fine poetical but not dramatic talent.-ED.]