We here enjoyed the comfort of a table plentifully furnished[470], the satisfaction of which was heightened by a numerous and cheerful company; and we for the first time had a specimen of the joyous social manners of the inhabitants of the Highlands.  They talked in their own ancient language, with fluent vivacity, and sung many Erse songs with such spirit, that, though Dr. Johnson was treated with the greatest respect and attention, there were moments in which he seemed to be forgotten.  For myself, though but a Lowlander, having picked up a few words of the language, I presumed to mingle in their mirth, and joined in the choruses with as much glee as any of the company.  Dr. Johnson being fatigued with his journey, retired early to his chamber, where he composed the following Ode, addressed to Mrs. Thrale[471]:—­

     ODA.

     Permeo terras, ubi nuda rupes
     Saxeas miscet nebulis ruinas,
     Torva ubi rident steriles coloni
     Rura labores.

     Pervagor gentes, hominum ferorum
     Vita ubi nullo decorata cultu
     Squallet informis, tugurique fumis
     Foeda latescit.

     Inter erroris salebrosa longi,
     Inter ignotae strepitus loquelae,
     Quot modis mecum, quid agat, requiro,
     Thralia dulcis?

     Seu viri curas pia nupta mulcet,
     Seu fovet mater sobolem benigna,
     Sive cum libris novitate pascet
     Sedula mentem;

     Sit memor nostri, fideique merces,
     Stet fides constans, meritoque blandum
     Thraliae discant resonare nomen
     Littora Skiae.

Scriptum in Skia, Sept. 6, 1773[472].

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 7.

Dr. Johnson was much pleased with his entertainment here.  There were many good books in the house:  Hector Boethius in Latin; Cave’s Lives of the Fathers; Baker’s Chronicle; Jeremy Collier’s Church History; Dr. Johnson’s small Dictionary; Craufurd’s Officers of State, and several more[473]:—­a mezzotinto of Mrs. Brooks the actress (by some strange chance in Sky[474]), and also a print of Macdonald of Clanranald[475], with a Latin inscription about the cruelties after the battle of Culloden, which will never be forgotten.

It was a very wet stormy day; we were therefore obliged to remain here, it being impossible to cross the sea to Rasay.

I employed a part of the forenoon in writing this Journal.  The rest of it was somewhat dreary, from the gloominess of the weather, and the uncertain state which we were in, as we could not tell but it might clear up every hour.  Nothing is more painful to the mind than a state of suspence, especially when it depends upon the weather, concerning which there can be so little calculation.  As Dr. Johnson said of our weariness on the Monday at Aberdeen, ‘Sensation is sensation[476]:’  Corrichatachin, which