There is literally no tree upon the island, part of it is a sandy waste, over which it would be really dangerous to travel in dry weather, and with a high wind.  It seems to be little more than one continued rock, covered, from space to space, with a thin layer of earth.  It is, however, according to the highland notion, very populous, and life is improved beyond the manners of Skie; for the huts are collected into little villages, and every one has a small garden of roots and cabbage.  The laird has a new house built by his uncle, and an old castle inhabited by his ancestors.  The young laird entertained us very liberally; he is heir, perhaps, to three hundred square miles of land, which, at ten shillings an acre, would bring him ninety-six thousand pounds a year.  He is desirous of improving the agriculture of his country; and, in imitation of the czar, travelled for improvement, and worked, with his own hands, upon a farm in Hertfordshire, in the neighbourhood of your uncle, sir Thomas Salusbury.  He talks of doing useful things, and has introduced turnips for winter fodder.  He has made a small essay towards a road.

Col is but a barren place.  Description has here few opportunities of spreading her colours.  The difference of day and night is the only vicissitude.  The succession of sunshine to rain, or of calms to tempests, we have not known; wind and rain have been our only weather.

At last, after about nine days, we hired a sloop; and having lain in it all night, with such accommodations as these miserable vessels can afford, were landed yesterday on the isle of Mull; from which we expect an easy passage into Scotland.  I am sick in a ship, but recover by lying down.

I have not good health; I do not find that travelling much helps me.  My nights are flatulent, though not in the utmost degree, and I have a weakness in my knees, which makes me very unable to walk.  Pray, dear madam, let me have a long letter.  I am, &c.

XXVI.—­To MRS. THRALE.

Inverary, Oct. 24, 1773.

HONOURED MISTRESS,—­My last letters to you, and my dear master, were written from Mull, the third island of the Hebrides in extent.  There is no post, and I took the opportunity of a gentleman’s passage to the mainland.

In Mull we were confined two days by the weather; on the third we got on horseback, and, after a journey, difficult and tedious, over rocks naked, and valleys untracked, through a country of barrenness and solitude, we came, almost in the dark, to the seaside, weary and dejected, having met with nothing but water falling from the mountains that could raise any image of delight.  Our company was the young laird of Col, and his servant.  Col made every Maclean open his house, where he came, and supply us with horses, when we departed; but the horses of this country are small, and I was not mounted to my wish.